1(0 


THE  SECOND 
ODD  NUMBER 

THIRTEEN   TALES 


BY 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 


THE   TRANSLATION   BY 

CHARLES    HENRY    WHITE 

AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

\VlLLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


REPLACING 


COPYRIGHT.    1917,   BY    HARPER   It    BROTHERS 


PRINTED  IN   THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 

C-R 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION i 

TONY 3 

DECORATED 25 

THE  COLONEL'S  IDEA 41 

THE  JEWELS 55 

FEAR 73 

Two  FRIENDS 91 

RELICS  OF  THE  PAST 109 

VIII.  A  QUESTION  OF  DIPLOMACY  .    .    .  119 

IX.  MADEMOISELLE  PERLE 143 

X.  THE  MADMAN 179 

XI.  THE  HOMECOMING 197 

XII.  PASSION 213 

XIII.  GRAVE- WALKERS 231 


M94727 


PUBLISHER'S   NOTE 

Of  the  thirteen  tales  in  this  volume, 
the  following  ten  were  translated  by 
Charles  Henry  White:  "  Tony,"  "  Dec- 
orated," "  The  Colonel's  Idea,"  "  The 
Jewels,"  "Fear,"  "Two  Friends," 
"  Relics  of  the  Past,"  "A  Question  of 
Diplomacy,"  "Passion,"  "Grave- 
Walkers." 

The  remaining  three  tales:  "  Made- 
moiselle Perle,"  "The  Madman,"  and 
"The  Homecoming,"  were  translated 
by  Virginia  Watson. 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  admirable  preface  which  Mr. 
Henry  James  wrote  for  the  first  volume 
of  Guy  de  Maupassant  in  this  series  leaves 
one  little  to  say  of  the  novelist's  great 
characteristics.  He  had  fully  developed 
these  when  Mr.  James  wrote  of  him,  and 
he  died  soon  afterward  without  notable 
change  in  matter  or  manner.  He  re- 
mained always  the  De  Maupassant  ob- 
served by  Mr.  James  for  good  as  well  as 
for  bad,  if  the  tales  here  reproduced  are 
to  be  taken  as  representative  of  his 
slighter  work. 

He  is  said  to  have  studied  his  realism 
under  the  direct  mastery  of  Flaubert,  and 
perhaps  his  novels  are  proof  of  this.  But 
I  think  he  went  beyond  Flaubert  in  the 


INTRODUCTION 

things  which  Flaubert  could  best  teach 
by  the  supreme  example  of  Madame 
Bovary.  Flaubert  did  not  seem  to  enjoy 
painting  the  passions — or  the  passion 
which  fiction  makes  stand  for  all  the 
passions — nude;  but  if  De  Maupassant 
does  not  enjoy  it,  he  seems  to  prefer  it. 
Besides,  there  is  a  brutality  in  De  Mau- 
passant which  appears  voluntary.  Its 
excess  does  not  convince  so  much  as  dis- 
gust; its  grossness  bedaubs  the  author 
and  comes  off  on  the  reader,  without 
verifying  the  fact  presented.  I  think  this 
will  be  felt  in  the  opening  sketch  of  this 
volume,  called  "Tony,"  which  is  quite 
noisome,  and  can  amuse  only  the  lovers 
of  horseplay.  I  do  not  suppose  that 
De  Maupassant  himself  thought  it  was 
humorous,  perhaps  he  was  forced  to  do 
the  thing  because  he  had  known  it  or  the 
like  of  it  to  happen;  a  writer  is  some- 
times thus  obsessed  by  his  experience. 
It  is  mainly  noticeable  here  because  it  is 
without  the  artistic  merit  of  a  man  whom 
you  must  hold  to  account  as  an  artist, 
and  blame  if  he  fails  you. 


INTRODUCTION 

Its  inferiority  will  be  clear  if  one  com- 
pares it  with  the  other  tales,  sketches, 
studies,  or  whatever  we  may  best  call 
the  little  pieces  making  up  this  little 
volume.  The  range  of  these  is  not  very 
great ;  the  effect  they  make  is  greater  than 
the  range.  The  best  among  them  is  of  the 
apparently  slight  frame  of  the  Russians, 
and  in  all  there  is  more  suggestion  of  the 
Russian  realists  than  the  French.  The 
effect  is  from  the  earlier  Russians,  but 
seems  anticipative  of  the  later.  You 
feel  Tourgenief  in  them  and  Tolstoy,  and 
yet  you  think  of  Gorky  and  Artsibashef , 
perhaps  because  the  same  ideal  is  con- 
tinuous in  that  wonderful  Slavic  race  from 
first  to  last.  The  presence  of  this  in- 
fluence in  De  Maupassant  may  have  had 
something  to  do  with  Tolstoy's  very  high 
estimate  of  his  novels  where  the  method 
by  its  sincerity  seems  to  have  gone  far 
to  console  him  for  the  repulsiveness  of  the 
material,  the  admirable  art  for  the  de- 
plorable morality,  the  naturalness  of  the 
treatment  for  the  conventionality  of  the 
method,  though  to  that  great  serious  soul 


INTRODUCTION 

the  novelist's  cynical  and  brutal  indif- 
ference to  the  indifference  of  his  sinners 
in  their  sin  must  always  have  seemed 
false. 

There  are  two  or  three  sketches  in  this 
volume  which  unite  the  past  and  present 
even  more  interestingly  than  the  con- 
tinuity of  Slavic  motive.  ' '  Two  Friends ' ' 
and  "The  Colonel's  Idea"  vividly  record 
events  and  feelings  of  the  German  War  of 
1870,  but  they  might  have  been  the 
events  and  feelings  of  the  German  War 
of  the  present,  they  fit  so  well  the  facts 
now  occurring.  "The  Two  Friends"  is 
especially  Slavic;  "The  Colonel's  Idea" 
is  lighter,  gayer,  more  Gallic,  but  the 
Slavic  touch  is  there,  too.  What  seems 
more  essentially  French  in  all  these  is 
such  a  delightful  picture  of  provincial 
character  as  "A  Question  of  Diplomacy." 
The  Republic  has  been  so  long  established 
that  the  type  of  patriotism  has  changed 
in  expression,  but  probably  not  in  feature. 
"Decorated"  is  a  kinder  and  tenderer 
handling  of  like  material;  it  teaches  by 
the  simplicity  of  the  feeling  recognized, 


INTRODUCTION 

the  sweet  and  gentle  ambition  of  the  good 
citizen  to  be  publicly  honored  by  the 
Government  for  what  is  scarcely  more 
than  his  negative  good  citizenship.  The 
play  of  the  irony  here  is  softer,  almost  af- 
fectionate, and  it  is  quite  absent  (to  the 
reader's  relief)  from  that  tragedy  of  pa- 
thos, "The  Jewels."  The  reader,  no 
more  than  the  husband,  suspects  the  wife, 
and  he  takes  refuge  in  the  untenable 
doubt  which  is  not  open  to  the  husband 
when  her  sin  begins  to  intimate  itself 
after  her  death.  In  this  quite  wonderful 
little  romance  the  artifice  has  almost  the 
effect  of  art.  It  is  only  upon  the  revela- 
tion of  the  carefully  concealed,  carefully 
disclosed  fact  that  you  give  up  your  illu- 
sion, and  even  then  you  would  like  to 
recall  it.  You  wish  that  it  were  innocent 
to  sin  for  the  indulgence  of  such  innocent 
love  of  the  baubles  which  turn  sheer 
paste  to  diamonds  in  proof  of  her  guilt. 
It  moves,  but  the  emotion  from  it  is 
momentary,  while  the  impression  of  such 
an  unstudied  incident  as  that  of  "The 
Two  Friends"  fishing  together  day  after 


INTRODUCTION 

day  till  they  are  taken  by  the  Prussians 
for  spies,  and  because  they  refuse  to 
betray  the  password  of  the  French  posts 
are  shot  and  flung  into  the  river,  endures 
and  cuts  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
memory.  It  is  something  Russian;  the 
other  is  something  English;  I  was  going 
to  say,  American. 


I 

TONY 


TONY 


FOR  ten  leagues  in  the  neighborhood 
he  was  known  as  Pop  Tony,  Fat  Tony, 
Anthony  Mdcheble,  or  My-Brandy  Tony, 
the  tavern-keeper  of  Tournevent. 

He  had  brought  fame  to  the  hamlet 
wedged  into  a  crease  in  the  valley — a  poor 
peasant  hamlet  composed  of  ten  Norman 
houses  surrounded  by  moats  and  trees. 

Here  these  houses  were  clustered  to- 
gether, half  hidden  in  a  ravine  covered 
with  grass  and  gorse,  behind  a  bend  which 
had  caused  it  to  be  called  Tournevent. 
They  seemed  to  have  sought  shelter  in 
this  hole  as  birds  hide  themselves  in  fur- 
rows of  the  ground  during  a  hurricane — a 


4  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

shelter  against  the  sea  wind,  that  hard, 
salt  wind  from  the  open  that  gnaws  and 
burns  like  fire  and  withers  and  destroys 
like  winter  frosts. 

But  the  entire  hamlet  appeared  to  be 
the  property  of  Anthony  Macheble*,  oth- 
\erwise -kn^^tTi:  as  Brandy  or  My-Brandy 
1  Toity,  ^afr  the1  result  of  a  phrase  he  con- 
tinually :  uspd^  *'« 
:  '^Myrhrwiy  is  the  best  in  France." 

For  twenty  years  he  had  primed  the 
country  with  his  burnt  brandies,  because 
every  time  he  was  asked,  "Pop  Tony, 
what  are  we  going  to  have?"  he  invari- 
ably answered,  "A  brandy,  my  son-in- 
law;  it  warms  up  your  tripes  and  clears 
the  brain.  There's  nothing  better  for  the 
body." 

He  also  had  the  habit  of  calling  every- 
body "my  son-in-law,"  not  that  he  ever 
had  a  married  daughter  or  one  to  be 
given  in  marriage. 

Yes,  they  certainly  knew  Brandy  Tony, 
the  fattest  man  in  the  canton  or  even  in 
the  district.  When  one  saw  him  stand- 
ing at  his  door,  where  he  spent  entire 


TONY  5 

days,  his  little  house  appeared  so  de- 
risively small  and  low  that  one  wondered 
how  he  could  possibly  enter  it.  He  went 
in  every  time  a  customer  arrived,  because 
Brandy  Tony  was  by  right  entitled  to 
levy  his  little  glass  on  everything  that 
was  drunk  in  the  establishment. 

The  sign  of  his  cafe  read,  Au  Rendez- 
vous des  Amis;  and  it  was  comfortable  at 
Tony's,  the  friend  of  the  entire  country- 
side. People  came  from  Fecamp  and 
Montvilliers  to  see  him  and  make  merry 
at  his  talk,  because  the  big  fellow  could 
have  made  a  tombstone  laugh.  He  had 
a  way  of  joking  with  people  without 
offending;  of  winking  his  eye  to  express 
what  he  left  unsaid,  and  of  beating  his 
thigh  in  an  outburst  of  gaiety  that  never 
failed  to  make  one  laugh  in  spite  of  him- 
self. And  then  again  it  was  a  curious 
sight  just  to  see  him  drink.  He  drank 
as  long  as  anybody  offered  anything; 
and  drank  everything,  with  joy  in  his 
sly  eye — joy  that  came  from  a  twofold 
pleasure:  in  the  first  place,  the  pleasure 
of  being  treated,  and  afterward  the  satis- 


6  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

faction  of  collecting  large  sou  pieces  for 
his  entertainment. 

Jokers  from  the  district  frequently 
asked  him,  "Pop  Tony,  why  don't  you 
drink  the  sea?" 

"There  are  two  things  against  it,"  he 
replied.  "In  the  first  place,  it's  salty, 
and,  in  the  second  place,  you  would  have 
to  put  it  in  bottles,  seeing  that  my 
stomach  is  not  pliable  enough  to  hold 
that  size  glass." 

Then  one  had  to  hear  him  quarreling 
with  his  wife!  It  was  a  comedy  for 
which  anybody  would  have  gladly  paid 
the  admission  fee.  For  the  thirty  years 
they  had  been  married  they  wrangled 
every  day.  Only  Tony  made  merry 
while  his  good  woman  lost  her  temper. 
She  was  a  big  peasant  who  walked  with 
the  long  stride  of  a  wading-bird  and  had 
a  head  like  an  angry  owl.  She  passed  her 
time  raising  chickens  in  a  little  court 
behind  the  taveni,  and  was  renowned 
for  the  way  she  could  fatten  poultry. 

When  an  entertainment  was  given  by 
the  upper  set  of  Fe*camp,  it  was  necessary 


TONY  7 

for  the  guests  to  eat  of  Mother  Tony's 
boarders  in  order  to  insure  the  success 
of  the  dinner. 

But  she  was  born  ill-tempered  and  had 
continued  to  be  discontented  with  every- 
thing. At  odds  with  the  entire  world,  she 
bore  a  particular  grudge  against  her  hus- 
band. She  begrudged  him  his  health,  his 
renown,  his  gaiety  and  stoutness.  She 
called  him  a  good-for-nothing  because  he 
made  money  without  doing  anything,  and 
a  lusher  because  he  ate  and  drank  like 
ten  ordinary  men.  Not  a  day  passed  but 
she  declared  in  exasperation: 

"Wouldn't  that  thing  be  better  in  a 
pigsty  for  hogs?  There's  so  much  fat  on 
him  it  makes  you  sick  at  your  stomach." 
And  then  she  bawled  in  his  face:  "You 
just  wait!  Just  you  wait  and  we'll  see 
what  11  happen!  He'll  burst  like  a  bag 
of  grain,  the  big,  bloated  duffer!" 

Tony  greeted  this  with  whole-souled 
laughter,  and,  beating  on  his  stomach, 
replied:  "I  say,  mother  hen,  look  at  this 
bread-basket!  Try  to  fatten  up  your 
hens  like  that.  Try  it,  just  to  see!" 


8  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

And,  pulling  up  the  sleeve  of  his  enormous 
arm,  he  continued:  "Here,  mother,  here's 
a  little  wing  for  you!  That's  a  wing!'* 

And  the  customers,  in  their  joy,  beat 
on  the  tables  with  their  fists,  while  they 
stamped  on  the  floor  and  spat  on  the 
ground  in  a  delirium  of  gaiety. 

The  furious  old  woman  replied:  "You 
just  wait ! .  .  .  You  just  wait  and  we'll  see 
what  '11  happen.  He'll  burst  like  a  bag 
of  grain." 

And  amid  the  laughter  of  the  drinkers 
she  left  in  a  fury. 

Indeed,  Tony  was  an  astonishing  sight, 
he  had  become  so  fat,  so  thick,  so  red  and 
puffy.  He  was  one  of  those  enormous 
creatures  with  whom  death  seems  to 
amuse  itself  with  artifices,  merriment,  and 
treacherous  buffoonery,  lending  an  ir- 
resistibly comic  touch  to  its  slow  work  of 
destruction.  Instead  of  showing  itself 
as  it  does  with  others — the  villain — in 
white  hair,  in  thinness,  in  wrinkles,  and 
in  the  increasing  weakness  that  makes  us 
exclaim  with  a  shudder,  "Great  Scott! 
how  he's  changed!"  it  seemed  to  enjoy 


TONY  9 

fattening  this  fellow,  to  make  him  mon- 
strous and  droll,  to  paint  him  with  reds 
and  purples,  to  make  him  puff,  and  to 
give  him  the  appearance  of  superhuman 
health;  and  with  him  the  deformities  it 
inflicts  on  all  mankind  became  laughable, 
comic,  and  diverting,  instead  of  being 
sinister  and  pitiable. 

"You  just  wait,"  Mother  Tony  re- 
peated. "  We'll  see  what  '11  happen." 

ii 

What  happened  was  that  Tony  had  an 
attack  of  paralysis.  They  put  the  colos- 
sus to  bed  in  the  little  room  behind  the 
partition  of  the  cafe,  so  that  he  could  hear 
what  was  said  on  the  other  side  and 
speak  with  his  friends,  for  his  mind  had 
remained  clear,  while  his  enormous  body, 
impossible  to  move  or  lift,  was  stricken 
motionless.  They  had  hoped,  in  the  be- 
ginning, that  his  great  legs  might  regain 
some  energy,  but  this  hope  was  soon  for- 
saken, and  Brandy  Tony  passed  his  days 
and  nights  in  his  bed,  which  was  only  done 


10  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

up  once  a  week  with  the  assistance  of  four 
neighbors,  who  seized  the  tavern-keeper 
by  his  four  members  and  lifted  him  while 
his  mattress  was  turned. 

Yet  he  remained  gay,  but  his  gaiety  was 
different — more  timid  and  meek,  and  re- 
vealed the  anxiety  of  a  little  child,  in  the 
presence  of  his  wife,  who  the  entire  day 
screeched : 

" There  he  is,  the  big  soak!  There  he 
is,  the  good-for-nothing,  the  loafer,  the 
bloated  drunkard!  A  pretty  state  of 
affairs!  A  pretty  state  of  affairs!" 

He  no  longer  replied.  He  merely 
winked  his  eye  behind  the  back  of  the  old 
woman  and  rolled  over  on  his  bed,  which 
was  the  only  movement  that  was  now 
possible  for  him.  He  called  this  exercise 
a  "going  north"  or  a  "going  south." 
His  great  diversion  was  now  listening  to 
the  conversations  in  the  cafe  and  talking 
through  the  partition  when  he  recognized 
the  voices  of  friends. 

"Hey,  there,  my  son-in-law!  Is  that 
you,  Celestin?"  he  would  shout. 

And  Celestin  Maloisel  answered:  "It's 


TONY  1 1 

me,  Pop  Tony.  Does  this  mean  that 
you're  up  galloping  around  again,  you  fat 
old  backslider?" 

"When  it  comes  to  galloping  about 
again — not  yet.  But  I  haven't  got  thin 
and  my  carcass  is  still  good." 

Soon  he  had  his  most  intimate  friends 
come  to  his  room,  and  they  kept  him 
company,  although  he  was  desolate  to 
see  them  drinking  without  him. 

"That's  what  puts  me  in  mourning, 
my  son-in-law,"  he  sighed.  "Not  to  be 
able  to  taste  my  brandy  —  Almighty 
God!  I  can  gargle  away  the  rest  of  my 
troubles,  but  not  to  drink  puts  me  in 
mourning." 

And  the  owl's  face  of  Mother  Tony 
appeared  at  the  window:  "Now  just  look 
at  him — look  at  him!"  she  screamed, 
"the  fat  loafer  I  have  to  feed  and  wash 
and  clean  up  like  a  pig!" 

And  when  the  old  woman  had  disap- 
peared, a  cock  with  red  plumes  occasion- 
ally hopped  on  the  window-ledge  and, 
turning  a  round,  curious  eye  on  the  room, 
crowed  deeply.  And  there  were  times, 


12  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

also,  when  two  chickens  flew  in  as  far  as 
his  bed  to  search  for  crumbs  on  the 
ground. 

The  friends  of  Brandy  Tony  soon  de- 
serted the  room  of  the  cafe  to  join  in  a 
comfortable  little  chat  about  the  bed- 
side of  the  big  fellow.  Even  bedridden 
as  he  was,  this  joker  Tony  still  amused 
them.  He  was  sharp-witted  enough  to 
have  made  the  devil  laugh.  There  were 
three  who  put  in  appearance  every  day: 
Celestin  Maloisel,  a  big,  skinny  fellow,  a 
little  twisted  like  the  trunk  of  an  apple- 
tree;  Prosper  Horslaville,  a  malicious, 
dry  little  chap  with  a  nose  like  a  ferret's 
and  crafty  as  a  fox;  and  Cesaire  Pau- 
melle,  who  never  spoke,  but  amused  him- 
self, nevertheless. 

They  brought  in  a  plank  from  the  yard 
and,  placing  it  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
played  dominoes,  and  some  strenuous 
games  they  had,  from  two  until  six. 

But  Mother  Tony  soon  became  un- 
bearable. She  could  not  bear  the  idea 
of  her  fat  loafer  still  amusing  himself 
with  dominoes,  in  his  bed;  and  every 


TONY  13 

time  she  saw  a  game  started  she  rushed  in 
furiously,  overturned  the  board,  seized 
the  game,  and  took  it  back  to  the  cafe, 
declaring  that  it  was  bad  enough  to  have 
to  feed  the  big,  greasy  lubber  without 
seeing  him  amusing  himself  as  if  to  snap 
his  fingers  at  the  poor  people  who  worked 
all  day. 

Celestin  Maloisel  and  Cesaire  Paumelle 
bowed  their  heads,  but  Prosper  Horsla- 
ville  excited  the  old  woman  and  amused 
himself  with  her  anger.  One  day,  seeing 
her  more  exasperated  than  usual,  he  drew 
her  aside : 

"I  say,  mother,  do  you  know  what  I'd 
do  if  I  were  you?" 

She  waited  for  an  explanation,  fixing 
her  owl's  eye  on  him. 

He  continued:  "Your  man  in  there 
who  never  leaves  his  bed  is  as  hot  as 
an  oven.  Well — I'd  have  him  set  on 
eggs." 

She  was  dumb  with  amazement,  think- 
ing that  he  was  making  fun  of  her,  and 
looked  hard  at  the  thin,  shrewd  face  of 
the  peasant,  who  proceeded: 


14  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

"I'd  put  five  of  them  beneath  one  arm, 
five  under  the  other,  the  same  day  I 
started  a  hen  setting.  They'll  hatch  out 
just  the  same,  and  when  they're  hatched 
I'd  give  your  man's  chicklings  to  the  hen- 
for  her  to  raise.  That,  mother,  would 
bring  you  in  some  poultry." 

The  old  woman  was  speechless.  "Can 
it  be  done?"  she  asked. 

"Can  it  be  done?  Why  can't  it  be 
done?  Seeing  that  they  hatch  eggs  in  a 
warm  box,  I  guess  you  can  hatch  'em  in  a 
bed." 

She  was  impressed  by  this  reasoning, 
and  went  away,  dreamy  and  calm. 

Eight  days  later  she  entered  Tony's 
room  with  her  apron  full  of  eggs,  and 
said:  "I've  just  put  the  yellow  hen  on 
a  nest  with  ten  eggs.  Here's  ten  for  you. 
Be  careful  not  to  break  any." 

"Eh?  What  do  you  mean?"  de- 
manded the  distracted  Tony. 

"I  want  you  to  set  on  them,"  she 
replied,  "you  good-for-nothing." 

At  first  he  laughed;  then,  as  she  in- 
sisted, he  became  angry;  he  resisted  and 


TONY  15 

resolutely  refused  to  permit  her  to  use 
him  as  an  egg-incubator. 

But  the  furious  old  woman  retorted: 
"You  won't  get  any  grub  as  long  as 
you  don't  take  them.  We'll  see  what  '11 
happen." 

Tony,  anxious,  said  nothing.  When 
the  clock  struck  midday  he  called: 

"Hey,  there,  mother,  is  the  soup 
ready?" 

"There  ain't  going  to  be  no  soup  for 
you,  you  big  loafer." 

At  first  he  thought  she  was  joking,  and 
waited;  then  begged, implored, swore, and 
executed  a  series  of  desperate  "going 
north"  and  "going  south"  shifts;  he 
even  rapped  on  the  wall  with  his  fist. 
But  he  had  to  resign  himself  and  permit 
five  eggs  to  be  placed  in  his  bed  against 
his  left  side  and  five  against  his  right 
side.  After  which  he  got  his  soup. 

When  his  friends  arrived  he  appeared 
so  odd  and  embarrassed  they  thought  he 
was  seriously  ill. 

The  daily  game  was  soon  under  way 
again.  But  Tony  didn't  appear  to  take 


1 6  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

any  pleasure  in  it  and  extended  his  hand 
with  extreme  slowness  and  precaution. 

"Why,  you  must  have  a  knot  tied  in 
your  arm!"  Horslaville  observed. 

"I  have  a  kind  of  heaviness  in  my 
shoulder,"  Tony  replied. 

Suddenly  they  heard  people  enter  the 
cafe,  and  the  players  were  silent. 

It  was  the  mayor  with  his  assistant. 
They  ordered  two  glasses  of  cognac  and 
began  to  discuss  local  business.  As  they 
spoke  in  an  undertone,  Brandy  Tony 
wanted  to  glue  his  ear  against  the  wall, 
and,  forgetting  his  eggs,  executed  a  rapid 
"going  north"  which  landed  him  on  an 
omelette. 

At  the  curse  he  uttered  Mother  Tony 
ran  in  and,  scenting  disaster,  discovered 
it  in  an  instant.  At  first  she  remained 
motionless,  too  prostrated,  too  suffo- 
cated to  speak  in  the  face  of  the  yellow 
poultice  glued  to  the  side  of  her  man. 
Then,  trembling  with  fury,  she  fell  on  the 
paralytic  and  beat  his  stomach  with 
great  thumps,  as  if  pounding  her  washing 
on  the  edge  of  the  duck-pond.  One  after 


TONY  17 

the  other  her  hands  descended  like  flails, 
with  a  dull  thud. 

Tony's  three  friends  laughed  to  the 
point  of  suffocation;  they  writhed  and 
coughed  and  screamed  while  the  big 
fellow,  thoroughly  scared,  parried  his 
wife's  attacks  with  prudence,  to  avoid 
breaking  the  five  eggs  he  had  on  the 
other  side. 


in 


Tony  was  vanquished.  He  had  to 
"set";  he  had  to  give  up  the  games  of 
dominoes  and  avoid  the  slightest  move- 
ment, because  the  old  woman  deprived 
him  of  food  with  ferocity  every  time  he 
broke  an  egg. 

He  remained  on  his  back,  motionless, 
with  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  his  arms 
raised  like  wings,  huddling  the  germs 
of  poultry,  sealed  in  their  white  shells, 
against  the  warmth  of  his  body. 

He  now  spoke  only  in  a  low  voice,  as  if 
he  feared  noise  as  much  as  movement, 
and  he  worried  about  the  yellow  hen 


1 8  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

which  was  occupied  in  the  chicken-house 
with  the  same  business  as  he. 

He  asked  his  wife,  "Did  the  yellow 
hen  eat  last  night?" 

And  the  old  woman  went  back  and 
forth  to  her  chickens  and  her  man  and 
from  her  man  to  the  chickens,  obsessed 
with  the  preoccupation  of  the  little  chick- 
ens that  were  maturing  in  the  bed  and  in 
the  nest. 

People  of  the  district  who  were  ac- 
quainted with  the  story  showed  a  curious 
and  serious  interest,  and  came  to  ask  for 
news  of  Tony.  They  moved  with  soft 
steps,  as  one  enters  a  sick-room,  and  in- 
quired with  sympathy: 

"Well,  how  are  you  getting  along?" 

"Oh,  I'm  getting  along  all  right," 
Tony  replied,  "but  I've  worried  so  much 
I'm  all  of  a  fever.  I  have  little  shivers 
that  gallop  up  and  down  my  skin." 

One  morning  his  wife,  deeply  moved, 
entered  and  said:  "The  yellow  hen  has 
seven.  Three  eggs  were  bad." 

Tony  felt  his  heart  jump.  How  many 
would  he  have  ?  And  with  the  anguish  of 


TONY  19 

a  woman  about  to  become  a  mother  he 
asked,  "Will  it  be  soon?" 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  the  old  woman  re- 
plied in  a  fury,  tortured  by  the  fear  of 
failure. 

They  waited.  Friends  who  had  been 
notified  that  the  hour  was  near  at  hand 
arrived,  anxious  themselves.  They  were 
chattering  about  it  in  every  house  and 
went  from  door  to  door  to  gather  news 
from  neighbors. 

Toward  three  o'clock  Tony  fell  asleep. 
He  now  slept  half  the  day.  He  was 
awakened  by  an  unusual  itching  under  his 
right  arm,  and  at  once,  moving  his  left 
hand  to  the  spot,  seized  a  little  thing 
covered  with  yellow  down,  which  wriggled 
in  his  fingers. 

His  emotion  was  such  that  he  began  to 
call  out  and  dropped  the  chick,  which 
ran  up  on  his  chest.  The  cafe  was  filled 
with  people.  The  customers  pressed  for- 
ward, invading  the  room,  and  formed  a 
circle  about  him,  as  in  a  mountebank 
performance,  and  the  old  woman,  arriv- 
ing on  the  scene,  cautiously  gathered 


20  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

up  the  little  thing,  hidden  beneath  the 
beard  of  her  husband. 

All  had  ceased  talking.  It  was  a  warm 
April  day.  Through  the  open  window 
one  could  hear  the  yellow  hen  clucking  as 
she  called  her  new-born. 

Tony,  who  was  sweating  with  emotion 
and  anxiety,  murmured,  "At  present  I 
have  another  one  under  my  left  arm." 

His  wife,  with  the  gesture  of  a  midwife, 
plunged  in  her  big,  bony  hand  and 
brought  forth  a  second  chick. 

The  neighbors  wanted  to  see,  so  it  was 
passed  around  and  looked  at  with  the 
attention  bestowed  upon  a  phenomenon. 

For  twenty  minutes  no  more  births 
were  registered;  then  four  came  out  of 
their  shells  at  the  same  time. 

This  was  greeted  by  an  uproar  among 
the  spectators,  and  Tony  smiled,  content 
with  his  success  and  beginning  to  feel 
proud  of  this  singular  paternity.  After 
all,  they  hadn't  seen  many  to  equal  him. 
He  was  really  a  funny  one. 

"That  makes  six !"  he  exclaimed.  " My 
God!  what  a  christening!" 


TONY  21 

And  loud  laughter  rose  among  the 
audience.  Others  arrived  to  swell  the 
numbers  in  the  cafe,  and  there  were  still 
others  waiting  at  the  door. 

"How  many  are  there?"  they  asked. 

"There's  six." 

Mother  Tony  carried  the  new  family 
to  the  hen,  which  clucked  distractedly, 
bristling  her  feathers  and  opening  wide 
her  wings  to  shelter  the  increasing  flock 
of  her  little  ones. 

"Here's  another  one!"  Tony  cried. 

He  was  mistaken;  there  were  three! 
It  was  a  triumph!  The  last  one  broke 
its  shell  at  seven  in  the  evening.  All  the 
eggs  were  good.  And  Tony,  delivered, 
crazy  with  joy  and  radiant  with  glory, 
almost  suffocated  the  frail  little  bird  by 
kissing  it  on  the  back.  He  wanted  to 
keep  this  one  with  him  until  the  following 
day,  seized  with  a  mother's  tenderness 
for  a  thing  so  tiny  which  he  had  brought 
to  life,  but  the  old  woman  turned  a  deaf 
ear  to  his  supplications  and  carried  it 
away  like  the  others. 

The  delighted  spectators  left,  discuss- 


22  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

ing  the  event,  and  Horslaville  was  the 
last  to  remain. 

"Say,  Pop  Tony,"  he  began,  "you're 
going  to  invite  me  to  the  first  fricassee, 
ain't  that  so?" 

At  the  idea  of  a  fricassee  Tony's  face 
lighted  up,  and  the  big  fellow  replied, 
"My  son-in-law,  you  can  bet  I'll  invite 
you." 


II 
DECORATED 


DECORATED 


PEOPLE  are  born  with  a  predominating 
instinct — a  vocation  or  merely  an  awak- 
ened desire — as  soon  as  they  begin  to 
speak  and  think. 

Monsieur  Sacrement,  from  infancy,  had 
but  one  idea  in  his  head — to  be  decorated. 
As  a  mere  child  he  wore  a  zinc  Legion  of 
Honor  cross  just  as  other  children  wear  a 
military  cap,  and  in  the  street,  when  he 
met  his  mother,  he  proudly  shook  hands 
with  her  and  inflated  his  little  chest,  or- 
namented with  the  red  ribbon  and  the 
metal  cross. 

After  indifferent  studies  he  failed  to 
take  a  degree,  and,  at  a  loss  as  to  what 
course  to  pursue,  married  a  pretty  girl, 
because  he  had  means. 


26  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

They  lived  in  Paris  in  the  manner  of 
rich  bourgeois,  associating  with  those  in 
their  own  station  without  mixing  in 
society,  and  prided  themselves  on  being 
the  friends  of  two  division  chiefs  and 
knowing  a  Deputy  who  might  become  a 
Minister. 

But  the  thought  which  Monsieur  Sac- 
rement  had  cherished  in  his  childhood 
still  lingered,  and  he  suffered  continu- 
ously at  not  being  entitled  to  show  a  little 
colored  ribbon  on  his  frock-coat.  The 
decorated  people  whom  he  met  on  the 
boulevard  gave  him  a  wrenching  of  the 
heart.  With  exasperated  jealousy  he 
stole  sidelong  glances  at  them.  At  times, 
on  long  afternoons  of  listless  idleness,  he 
counted  them  and  said: 

"Let  us  see  how  many  I'll  find  from 
the  Madeleine  to  the  Rue  Drouot." 

And  he  walked  slowly,  inspecting  gar- 
ments with  an  eye  trained  to  distinguish 
the  little  red  spot  at  a  distance.  When 
he  came  to  the  end  of  his  walk  he  was 
amazed  at  the  figures. 

"Eight  officers  and  seventeen  knights! 


DECORATED  27 

As  many  as  that!  It's  ridiculous  to  dis- 
tribute crosses  broadcast  in  this  manner. 
Let's  see  if  I  find  as  many  on  the  way 
back." 

And  he  returned  at  a  slow  pace,  dis- 
consolate when  the  crowd  of  passers-by 
interfered  with  him  in  his  investigations 
and  made  him  forget  somebody.  He 
knew  the  quarters  where  most  of  them 
could  be  found.  They  were  abundant 
at  the  Palais  Royale.  The  Avenue  de 
1'Opera  was  not  equal  to  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix;  the  right  side  of  the  boulevard  was 
more  frequented  than  the  left. 

They  also  seemed  to  prefer  certain 
cafes  and  theaters.  Every  time  Mon- 
sieur Sacrement  saw  a  group  of  white- 
haired  gentlemen  assembled  in  the  middle 
of  the  street  and  interfering  with  the 
traffic,  he  said  to  himself: 

"Here  are  officers  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor,"  and  he  felt  like  raising  his  hat. 

The  officers,  he  had  frequently  ob- 
served, have  a  different  bearing  than  sim- 
ple knights.  The  poise  of  their  heads  is 
not  the  same.  One  feels  distinctly  that 


28  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

they  enjoy  a  higher  consideration,  a  more 
extensive  eminence. 

Yet  there  were  moments,  too,  when  the 
sight  of  all  these  decorated  people  drove 
Monsieur  Sacrement  into  blind  fury  and 
he  felt  a  socialist's  hatred  for  them;  and 
on  returning  home,  excited  by  the  vision 
of  so  many  crosses,  like  a  poor  famished 
man  who  has  passed  by  large  grocery- 
stores,  he  exploded: 

"When  will  we  at  last  be  rid  of  this 
rotten  government?" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you  to- 
day?" his  wife  asked,  surprised. 

"  The  matter  is  that  I'm  indignant  when 
I  see  the  rank  injustice  committed  every- 
where. The  Communards  were  right!" 

After  dinner,  however,  he  went  out  and 
gazed  at  the  stores  for  decorations.  He 
examined  all  the  insignia  of  divers  forms 
and  varied  colors.  He  would  like  to  have 
possessed  them  all,  and,  in  a  public  cere- 
mony, in  an  immense  hall  thronged  with 
amazed  people,  to  march  at  the  head  of 
a  procession,  his  chest  scintillating  with 
zebra-like  bars,  lined  one  above  the  oth- 


DECORATED  2Q 

er,  and  following  the  curve  of  his  ribs, 
and  to  pass  gravely,  his  opera-hat  be- 
neath his  arm,  shimmering  like  a  celestial 
orb  in  the  midst  of  admiring  whispers  and 
murmurs  of  respect. 

Alas!  he  had  no  qualification  for  any 
decoration. 

He  deliberated :  "The  Legion  of  Honor 
is  really  far  too  difficult  for  a  man  who 
does  not  fill  some  public  function.  What 
if  I  tried  to  have  myself  made  an  officer 
of  the  Academy?'* 

But  he  didn't  know  how  to  go  about  it. 
He  spoke  of  it  to  his  wife,  who  was  stu- 
pefied with  amazement. 

"An  officer  of  the  Academy?  What 
have  you  done  for  that?" 

He  lost  his  temper.  "Try  to  grasp 
what  I'm  driving  at.  What  I  should  do 
is  just  what  I'd  like  to  know.  At  times 
you're  idiotic." 

She  smiled.  "Quite  so.  You're  right. 
But  I  don't  know." 

An  idea  occurred  to  him:  "  If  you  were 
to  speak  to  the  Deputy  Rosselin,  he 
might  be  able  to  give  me  excellent  ad- 


30  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

vice.  You  understand  how  I  can  hardly 
approach  the  question  directly  with  him. 
It's  rather  a  delicate  and  difficult  affair, 
but,  coming  from  you,  the  thing  would 
seem  quite  natural."  Madame  Sacrement 
did  as  he  wished.  Monsieur  Rosselin 
promised  to  speak  of  the  matter  to  the 
Minister.  Then  Sacrement  hounded  him. 
The  Deputy  finally  replied  that  he  would 
have  to  make  out  a  regular  demand  and 
enumerate  his  qualifications. 

That  was  the  trouble  —  his  qualifica- 
tions. He  did  not  even  possess  a  uni- 
versity degree.  Yet  he  busied  himself 
with  his  task  and  began  a  pamphlet  on 
"The  Right  of  the  People  to  be  Edu- 
cated." He  was  unable  to  finish  it,  ow- 
ing to  a  penury  of  ideas. 

He  searched  for  easier  subjects  and 
took  up  several  in  succession.  At  first 
it  was  "The  Education  of  Children  by 
the  Eyes."  He  wanted  to  establish  a 
sort  of  free  theater  for  little  children  in 
the  poor  quarters.  Their  parents  would 
take  them  there  from  their  tenderest  age 
and  they  would  receive  notions  of  human 


DECORATED  31 

knowledge  by  means  of  a  magic  lantern. 
These  were  to  be  regular  courses.  The 
sight  would  instruct  the  brain  and  the 
pictures  would  remain  graven  in  the 
memory,  rendering,  so  to  speak,  science 
visible. 

What  could  be  simpler  than  teaching 
universal  history  in  this  manner — geog- 
raphy, natural  history,  botany,  zoology, 
anatomy,  etc.? 

He  had  this  tract  printed,  and  sent 
a  copy  to  each  Deputy;  six  to  each 
Minister;  fifty  to  the  President  of  the 
Republic;  ten,  likewise,  to  each  of  the 
Parisian  papers,  and  five  to  the  provincial 
press. 

Then  he  took  up  the  question  of  street 
libraries,  and  demanded  that  the  state 
have  little  carts  full  of  books,  pushed 
through  the  streets  like  the  carts  of 
orange-venders.  Each  inhabitant  would 
be  entitled  to  ten  volumes  for  a  sub- 
scription of  one  sou. 

"The  people,"  Monsieur  Sacrement 
observed,  "will  not  inconvenience  itself 
for  its  pleasures.  Since  it  will  not  go  to 


32  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

education,  it  is  necessary  for  education 
to  go  to  it,"  etc. 

These  attempts  created  no  noise.  Yet 
he  sent  in  his  demand.  They  answered 
that  they  were  taking  notes  and  investi- 
gating. He  felt  certain  of  success.  He 
waited.  Nothing  came. 

He  then  decided  to  attend  to  the  mat- 
ter in  person.  He  solicited  an  audience 
with  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction 
and  was  received  by  an  attache  of  the 
Cabinet,  who,  though  quite  young,  was 
already  grave,  even  important,  and 
played,  as  does  a  pianist,  upon  a  series  of 
little  white  buttons  to  call  ushers  and  the 
attendants  of  the  waiting-room  and  the 
subordinate  employees.  He  told  the  ap- 
plicant that  his  affair  was  progressing 
favorably,  and  advised  him  to  continue 
his  remarkable  work. 

And  Monsieur  Sacrement  returned  to 
his  task. 

Monsieur  Rosselin*  the  Deputy,  now 
seemed  to  greatly  interest  himself  in  his 
success,  and  even  gave  him  a  lot  of  prac- 
tical and  excellent  advice.  Moreover, 


DECORATED  33 

he  himself  was  decorated,  although  it  was 
not  known  what  qualifications  entitled 
him  to  such  a  distinction. 

He  suggested  new  studies  that  Mon- 
sieur Sacrement  should  undertake;  he 
presented  him  to  a  number  of  learned  so- 
cieties which  dealt  with  particularly  ob- 
scure scientific  questions  with  the  object 
of  attaining  honors.  He  even  supported 
him  at  the  Ministry. 

One  day  as  he  was  lunching  with  his 
friend — for  some  months  he  was  a  fre- 
quent guest  at  the  house — he  shook  his 
hand  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"I  have  just  been  able  to  obtain  a  great 
favor  for  you.  The  committee  of  his- 
toric research  has  intrusted  you  with  a 
mission.  It  will  mean  investigations  to 
be  made  in  the  different  libraries  of 
France." 

Overcome  with  emotion,  Monsieur  Sac- 
rement could  neither  eat  nor  drink. 
Eight  days  later  he  left. 

He  went  from  city  to  city,  studying 
catalogues,  groping  about  in  attics  heaped 
up  with  dusty  volumes,  a  prey  to  the 


34  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

hatred  of  librarians.  But  one  evening, 
as  he  happened  to  be  in  Rouen,  he  longed 
to  fondle  his  wife,  whom  he  had  not  seen 
for  a  week,  and  took  the  nine-o'clock 
train,  which  would  bring  him  home  by 
midnight.  He  had  his  key,  and  entered 
noiselessly,  trembling  with  pleasure  and 
elated  at  the  idea  of  giving  his  wife  this 
surprise.  As  luck  would  have  it,  she  had 
locked  herself  in  her  room,  so  he  called 
through  the  door: 

"Jeanne,  it's  me." 

She  must  have  been  very  frightened, 
for  he  heard  her  jump  from  her  bed  and 
talk  to  herself  as  if  in  a  dream.  Then  she 
ran  to  the  toilet-room,  opened  and  closed 
the  door,  and  raced  across  her  room 
several  times,  barefoot,  shaking  the  fur- 
niture, whose  crystal-ware  faintly  tinkled. 
Finally  she  asked: 

"Is  it  really  you,  Alexandra?" 

"Why,  yes,  it's  me!  Why  don't  you 
open?"  he  replied. 

The  door  yielded  and  his  wife  fell  into 
his  arms:  "What  an  awful  fright!  What 
a  surprise !  What  a  treat !" 


DECORATED  35 

He  then  began  to  undress  methodi- 
cally, as  he  did  everything,  and  from  a 
chair  picked  up  his  overcoat,  which  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  hanging  in  the  ves- 
tibule. But  suddenly  he  was  amazed; 
there  was  a  red  ribbon  in  the  buttonhole. 

"This  .  .  .  this  ..."  he  stammered, 
"this  .  .  .  overcoat  is  decorated!" 

At  this  his  wife  threw  herself  at  him 
in  an  instant.  "No,  you  are  mistaken! 
Give  it  to  me,"  she  said,  seizing  the 
garment. 

But  he  still  clung  to  it,  by  the  sleeve 
and  would  not  give  it  up,  repeating  in  a 
kind  of  delirium:  "Eh  .  .  .  why?  .  .  . 
Explain  this.  .  .  .  Whose  coat  is  this?  . . . 
It  isn't  mine,  as  it  has  the  ribbon  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor  on  it." 

She  tried  to  tear  it  from  him,  and, 
distracted,  blurted  out:  "Listen.  .  .  . 

Give  it  to  me.  ...  I  can't  tell  you 

It's  a  secret.  .  .  .  Listen." 

He  Decame  angry  and  pale.  "I  want 
to  know  how  this  overcoat  happens  to 
be  here.  It  isn't  mine." 

"Yes;  be  quiet,"  she  insisted.    "Swear 


36  THE   SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

to  me.  .  .  .  Listen.  .  .  .  Well .  .  .  you've 
been  decorated." 

He  experienced  such  an  emotional 
shock  that  he  dropped  the  overcoat  and 
sank  into  an  arm-chair. 

"I'm  .  .  .  You  say  .  .  .  I've  been  .  .  . 
I've  been  decorated!" 

"Yes.    It's  a  secret — a  big  secret." 

She  had  locked  the  glorious  garment 
in  a  cupboard  and,  pale  and  trembling, 
returned  to  her  husband. 

"Yes,  it's  a  new  overcoat  I've  had 
made  for  you,"  she  continued.  "I  had 
sworn  I  would  say  nothing.  It  will  be  a 
month  or  six  weeks  before  it  becomes 
official.  It  is  necessary  for  you  to  finish 
your  work.  You  were  only  to  know  of  it 
on  your  return.  It  was  Monsieur  Ros- 
selin  who  got  it  for  you.  ..." 

Sacrement,  unstrung,  stammered: 
"Rosselin  .  .  .  decorated.  He  had  me 
decorated  ...  me  ...  he  ...  Ah!" 

He  was  obliged  to  drink  a  glass  of 
water. 

A  little  white  paper  which  had  fallen 
from  the  pocket  of  the  overcoat  lay  on 


DECORATED  37 

the  ground.  Sacrement  picked  it  up; 
it  was  a  visiting-card  and  bore  the  in- 
scription : 

ROSSELIN,  DEPUTY 

"You  see  for  yourself,"  his  wife  put  in. 
And  he  wept  for  joy. 

Eight  days  later  the  Official  announced 
that  Monsieur  Sacrement  had  been  named 
Knight  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  for  ex- 
ceptional services. 


Ill 

THE    COLONEL'S    IDEA 


THE  COLONEL'S  IDEA 


"WELL,"  Colonel  Laporte  began,  "I'm 
old,  I  have  gout,  my  legs  are  as  stiff  as 
fence-posts,  and  yet  if  a  woman,  a  pretty 
woman,  were  to  order  me  to  pass  through 
the  eye  of  a  needle,  I  think  I'd  dive  at  it 
like  a  clown  in  his  hoop.  I'll  die  like 
that  —  it's  in  my  blood.  I'm  an  old 
blade,  a  veteran  of  the  old  school.  The 
sight  of  a  woman,  a  pretty  woman,  thrills 
me  right  down  to  my  boots. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  gentlemen,  in 
France  we  are  a  good  deal  alike.  In 
spite  of  everything  we  remain  cavaliers 
— the  cavaliers  of  love  and  chance,  since 
they  have  abolished  God,  of  whom  we 
were  really  the  body-guard. 

"But   women,  mark   you,  will   never 


42  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

be  plucked  from  our  hearts.  They  are 
there,  and  there  they  will  remain.  We 
love  them;  we  shall  continue  to  love 
them;  for  them  we  will  commit  any  act 
of  madness  as  long  as  there  is  a  France 
on  the  map  of  Europe.  And  even  if  you 
juggle  away  France,  there  will  always  be 
Frenchmen. 

"Before  the  eyes  of  a  woman,  a  pretty 
woman,  I  feel  myself  capable  of  anything. 
My  God,  when  I  feel  her  look  penetrate 
me — that  devil  of  a  look  that  spreads  wild 
fire  through  the  veins — I  feel  like  ...  I 
don't  know  what  .  .  .  like  fighting.  I 
want  to  wrestle,  to  smash  furniture,  to 
show  that  I  am  the  strongest,  the  bravest, 
the  most  courageous,  and  the  most  de- 
voted of  men. 

"But  I  am  not  alone,  believe  me;  the 
entire  French  army  is  like  me.  I'll 
swear  to  it.  From  the  simple  private  to 
the  generals  we  sweep  forward  like  a  man 
and  are  there  at  the  finish  where  a  woman 
is  concerned.  Just  remember  what  Joan 
of  Arc  made  us  do  in  olden  times.  Strike 
me  dead  if  I'm  not  willing  to  bet  you 


THE  COLONEL'S  IDEA  43 

that  if  a  woman,  a  pretty  woman,  had 
taken  command  of  the  army  on  the  eve 
of  Sedan,  when  Marshal  MacMahon  was 
wounded,  we  would  have  broken  through 
the  Prussian  lines  and  had  drinks  on 
their  cannons. 

"It  was  not  a  Trochu  that  was  needed 
in  Paris,  but  a  Saint  Genevieve. 

"I  just  happen  to  remember  a  little 
anecdote  of  the  war  which  proves  that  be- 
fore a  woman  we  are  capable  of  anything. 

"I  was  then  a  captain,  a  simple  cap- 
tain, in  command  of  a  detachment  of 
scouts  who  were  retreating  in  the  heart 
of  country  invaded  by  Prussians.  We 
were  hemmed  in,  pursued,  worn  out  and 
stupefied  with  hunger  and  exhaustion. 

"We  had  to  reach  Bar-sur-Tain  before 
the  following  day  to  avoid  being  singed, 
cut  up,  and  massacred.  How  we  had 
escaped  so  far  is  a  mystery  to  me.  We 
had  to  cover  a  dozen  leagues — a  dozen 
leagues  with  empty  bellies,  through  snow 
and  drifts. 

"'The  game's  up,'  I  thought;  'these 
poor  devils  will  never  arrive.' 


44  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

"We  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  night 
before.  All  day  we  remained  hidden  in 
a  barn,  wedged  close  together  for  greater 
warmth,  incapable  of  speaking  or  moving, 
and  sleeping  by  fits  and  starts,  as  one 
does  when  one  is  prostrated  with  fatigue. 

"At  five  o'clock  it  was  still  night,  the 
livid  night  of  the  snow.  I  shook  my  men. 
Many,  incapable  of  either  moving  or 
standing  and  ossified  by  the  cold  and  the 
rest,  were  for  never  getting  up. 

"Before  us  lay  the  plain,  that  great 
wench  of  a  plain,  stark  naked  beneath  the 
snow-storm.  And  like  a  curtain  those 
great  white  flakes  fell  ceaselessly;  they 
fell  like  a  heavy  frozen  mantle,  thick 
and  deadly,  hiding  everything  beneath  it 
like  an  ice-woven  mattress.  One  would 
have  thought  it  the  end  of  the  world. 

"'Forward,  boys — march!'  I  ordered. 

"They  looked  at  the  white  dust 
descending  from  above  and  seemed  to 
think,  'We've  had  enough.  .  .  .  Might 
just  as  well  die  here!' 

"So  I  drew  my  revolver.  'I'll  shoot 
the  first  man  who  falters.' 


THE  COLONEL'S  IDEA  45 

"At  this  they  began  to  march,  very 
slowly,  like  people  whose  legs  are  used  up. 
I  sent  four  of  them  ahead  for  three  hun- 
dred yards,  to  scout,  and  then  the  rest 
followed,  pell-mell,  in  a  confused  mass, 
regardless  of  fatigue  and  the  pace.  I 
placed  the  strongest  ones  in  the  rear, 
with  orders  to  help  along  stragglers  with 
bayonet  prods  in  the  back. 

"The  snow  seemed  to  be  burying  us 
alive;  its  iridescent  dust  covered  kepis 
and  cloaks,  transforming  us  into  phan- 
toms— specters  of  dead  soldiers  on  their 
last  legs. 

"'We'll  never  get  out  of  this  without 
a  miracle,'  I  pondered. 

"At  times  we  stopped  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, owing  to  those  who  were  unable  to 
follow.  And  then  we  heard  nothing  but 
the  vague  whispering  of  the  snow — that 
almost  inaudible  sound  made  by  the 
grazing  of  flakes  that  cluster  as  they  fall. 

"Some  of  the  men  moved  about;  oth- 
ers didn't  budge.  Then  I  gave  orders 
to  advance.  Rifles  were  shouldered,  and 
at  a  lessened  pace  they  began  to  march. 


46  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

"Suddenly  the  scouts  fell  back;  some- 
thing had  made  them  uneasy;  they  had 
heard  voices  ahead  of  us.  I  sent  six  men 
and  a  sergeant,  and  waited.  Almost  im- 
mediately a  piercing  cry,  the  cry  of  a 
woman,  broke  the  heavy  silence  of  the 
snow,  and  presently  they  brought  me  two 
prisoners — an  old  man  and  a  young  girl. 

"I  questioned  them  in  a  low  voice. 
They  were  fleeing  from  the  Prussians, 
who  were  drunk  and  had  occupied  their 
house  during  the  evening.  The  father  had 
feared  for  his  daughter,  and  without  even 
notifying  the  servants  they  had  both  es- 
caped in  the  night. 

"I  at  once  recognized  them  as  bour- 
geois, even  better  than  bourgeois. 

"'You  will  accompany  us,'  I  said. 

"We  started  again.  As  the  old  man 
knew  the  country,  he  acted  as  guide. 

"The  snow  ceased  to  fall,  the  stars  ap- 
peared, and  it  became  intensely  cold. 

"The  young  girl,  who  held  her  father 
by  the  arm,  walked  with  a  broken  step — a 
step  of  anguish.  Several  times  she  mur- 
mured, '  I  can  no  longer  feel  my  feet,' 


THE  COLONEL'S  IDEA  47 

and  I  suffered  more  than  she  to  see  this 
poor  little  woman  drag  herself  through 
the  snow. 

"Suddenly  she  stopped.  'Father,'  she 
said,  'I'm  so  tired  I  can't  go  any  farther.' 

"The  old  man  wanted  to  carry  her,  but 
he  was  not  even  able  to  lift  her,  and  with 
a  deep  sigh  she  sank  to  the  ground. 

"We  clustered  about  them.  For  my 
part,  I  stamped  about  in  my  tracks,  not 
knowing  what  to  do  and  unable  to  really 
decide  to  abandon  the  old  man  and  his 
child  in  this  manner. 

"One  of  my  soldiers,  a  Parisian  who 
had  been  dubbed  'Pratique,'  suddenly 
exclaimed:  'Come  on,  boys.  We  have  to 
carry  this  demoiselle  or, damn  it  all!  we're 
no  longer  Frenchmen.' 

"  I  really  think  I  swore  for  sheer  joy. 

'"My  God,  boys,  that's  really  nice!  I 
want  to  do  my  share.' 

"In  the  darkness,  to  the  left,  the  trees 
of  a  small  woods  were  vaguely  visible. 
Some  men  left  us  and  soon  returned  with 
a  bundle  of  branches  bound  together  into 
a  litter. 


48  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

"c Who'll  lend  his  cloak?'  Pratique 
called  out.  'Remember,  brothers,  it's 
for  a  pretty  girl.' 

4 'And  ten  cloaks  fell  about  the  soldier. 
In  a  second  the  young  girl  lay  bundled 
up  beneath  these  warm  garments  and  was 
lifted  on  six  shoulders.  I  placed  myself 
at  the  head  and  was  happy  to  have  my 
charge. 

"We  started  again,  livelier  and  merrier, 
as  if  we  had  had  a  round  of  wine.  I  even 
heard  joking.  You  see,  to  electrify  a 
Frenchman  a  woman  suffices. 

"The  soldiers,  revived  and  warmed  up 
again,  had  almost  formed  into  marching 
order.  An  old  volunteer  sharpshooter  who 
followed  the  litter,  waiting  for  his  turn 
to  replace  the  first  comrade  who  might 
falter,  muttered  to  his  neighbor,  loud 
enough  for  me  to  hear: 

"I  ain't  young  any  more,  that's  sure; 
but,  damn  it  all!  the  gentle  sex — there 
ain't  nothing  like  it  to  put  heart  in  a  man.' 

"Until  three  in  the  morning  we  ad- 
vanced almost  without  a  stop.  Then 
suddenly  the  scouts  fell  back  again,  and 


THE  COLONEL'S  IDEA  49 

soon  the  whole  detachment,  stretched  on 
the  snow,  formed  nothing  but  a  vague 
shadow.  I  gave  orders  in  a  low  voice, 
and  behind  me  I  heard  the  dry,  metallic 
click  of  the  gun-breeches  as  they  loaded. 

"Over  there  in  the  middle  of  the  plain 
something  strange  was  moving.  One 
might  have  taken  it  for  an  enormous 
animal  that  ran,  spreading  out  like  a 
snake  or  pulling  itself  together  into  a 
ball  and  taking  sudden  bounds  first  to 
the  right,  then  to  the  left,  only  to  stop 
and  be  off  again. 

"Presently  this  wandering  form  came 
nearer,  and  I  saw,  galloping  one  behind 
the  other,  a  dozen  Uhlans  who  had  lost 
their  way  and  were  searching  for  their 
route. 

"They  were  now  so  near  that  I  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  rasping  breathing  of  the 
horses,  the  clanking  of  the  small  arms, 
and  the  crackling  of  the  saddles. 

"  I  commanded, '  Fire !'  And  fifty  rifles 
rang  through  the  silence  of  the  night. 
Four  or  five  shots  followed,  then  one  all 
by  itself,  and  when  the  blinding  flash  of 


50  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

the  powder  had  subsided  we  saw  that 
twelve  men  and  nine  horses  had  fallen. 
Three  of  the  animals  raced  away  at  a 
furious  gallop,  and  one  dragged  behind  it, 
hanging  by  one  foot  to  the  stirrup  and 
bouncing  about  madly,  the  corpse  of  its 
rider. 

"A  soldier  behind  me  laughed — a  ter- 
rible laugh. 

"'There  you  have  some  widows!'  an- 
other observed.  Perhaps  he  was  married. 

"'It  didn't  take  long,'  a  third  added. 

"A  head  suddenly  appeared  above  the 
litter.  'What  are  you  doing?'  she  asked. 
'Are  they  fighting?' 

"'It's  nothing,  mademoiselle,'  I  replied. 
'We  have  just  despatched  a  dozen  Prus- 
sians.' 

:"Poor  things!'  she  murmured.  But, 
as  she  felt  cold,  she  disappeared  beneath 
the  cloaks. 

"We  started  again  and  marched  for  a 
long  time.  Finally  the  sky  grew  pale. 
The  snow  became  clear  and  luminous, 
and  glistened,  and  in  the  east  a  crimson 
flush  spread  gradually. 


"A  distant  voice  called,  'Qui  viveT 

"The  entire  detachment  halted,  and  I 
advanced  to  make  ourselves  known.  We 
had  arrived  at  the  French  lines.  As  my 
men  marched  past  the  post,  a  mounted 
commandant,  whom  I  had  acquainted 
with  our  adventure,  seeing  the  litter  pass, 
asked  in  a  deep  voice: 

'"What  have  you  in  there?' 

"At  once  a  little  blond  head  appeared, 
smiling  and  disheveled,  and  answered, '  It's 
me,  monsieur.' 

"  Laughter  rose  among  the  men  and  joy 
was  in  their  hearts. 

"Then  'Pratique,'  who  was  marching 
beside  the  litter,  waved  his  kepi,  shouting, 
'Vive  la  France!' 

"And  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  felt  my- 
self all  stirred  up,  it  struck  me  as  being  so 
graceful — so  gallant. 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  we  had  just 
saved  the  country,  just  done  something 
that  other  men  would  not  have  done, 
something  simple  and  really  patriotic. 

"And  do  you  know,  I'll  never  forget 
that  little  face;  and  if  I  had  to  give  my 


$2  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

opinion  on  the  suppression  of  the  drum  and 
bugle  corps,  I  should  propose  to  replace 
them  by  a  pretty  girl.  That  would  even 
be  better  than  the  '  Marseillaise.'  Damn 
it  all!  what  snap  it  would  put  into  the 
trooper  to  have  a  Madonna  like  that,  a 
living  Madonna,  beside  the  colonel!" 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  and  then, 
shaking  his  head,  he  continued,  with  con- 
viction, "You  can  say  what  you  like,  we 
Frenchmen  do  love  women." 


IV 
THE   JEWELS 


THE    JEWELS 


MONSIEUR  LANTIN  met  the  young  girl 
at  a  reception  given  one  night  by  the 
assistant  chief  of  his  department,  and 
love  enveloped  him  like  a  net. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  provincial 
tax-collector  who  had  been  dead  for  some 
years.  She  came  to  Paris  afterward  with 
her  mother,  who  associated  with  some 
bourgeois  families  in  her  neighborhood  in 
the  hope  of  marrying  the  young  girl.  They 
were  poor  and  honorable,  unobtrusive  and 
gentle.  She  appeared  to  be  the  absolute 
type  of  the  virtuous  woman  to  whom  a 
young  man  would  dream  of  devoting  his 
life.  Her  delicate  beauty  had  a  charm  of 
angelic  modesty,  and  the  imperceptible 
smile  that  unceasingly  hovered  on  her 


56  THE   SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

lips  seemed  to  be  a  reflection  of  her 
heart. 

Everybody  sang  her  praises.  All  who 
knew  her  were  never  tired  of  repeating: 
"  It  will  be  a  lucky  man  who  gets  her.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  do  better.'7 

Monsieur  Lantin,  who  was  then  chief 
clerk  at  the  Ministry  of  the  Interior,  with 
an  annual  salary  of  thirty-five  hundred 
francs,  asked  for  her  hand  and  married 
her. 

He  was  incredibly  happy  with  her. 
She  managed  his  house  with  such  skilful 
economy  that  they  seemed  to  live  in 
luxury.  There  was  not  a  delicate  little 
attention,  nor  a  playful,  kittenish  caress, 
she  did  not  lavish  on  her  husband,  and 
the  witchery  of  her  person  was  such  that 
six  years  after  their  meeting  he  loved  her 
even  more  than  at  the  beginning. 

He  could  find  but  one  fault  with  her — 
a  love  of  the  theater  and  imitation  jew- 
elry. 

Her  friends — she  knew  some  of  the 
wives  of  modest  functionaries — were  con- 
tinually sending  her  boxes  for  the  plays  in 


THE  JEWELS  57 

vogue,  even  for  first  nights,  and,  willing 
or  not,  she  dragged  her  husband  to  these 
entertainments,  which  fatigued  him  ter- 
ribly after  his  day's  work.  He  begged 
her  to  agree  to  go  to  the  theater  with 
some  lady  of  her  acquaintance  who  could 
bring  her  home  afterward.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  she  consented,  considering  it 
hardly  proper  to  act  in  this  manner. 
Finally  she  decided  to  humor  him,  and  he 
was  infinitely  grateful  to  her. 

This  taste  for  the  theater  soon  awak- 
ened the  need  of  adorning  herself.  It  is 
true,  her  toilettes  were  always  simple, 
always  in  good  taste  and  modest,  and  her 
gentle  grace,  her  irresistible  grace,  unpre- 
tentious and  radiant,  seemed  to  acquire 
an  added  flavor  from  the  simplicity  of  her 
dresses;  but  she  fell  into  the  habit  of 
hanging  two  great  rhinestones  in  her  ears 
to  simulate  diamonds;  she  wore  neck- 
laces of  false  pearls,  imitation  bracelets, 
and  combs  ornamented  with  variegated 
glass  masquerading  as  precious  stones. 

Her  husband,  a  little  shocked  by  this 
love  of  the  tawdry,  frequently  remon- 


58  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

strated  with  her.  "My  dear,  when  one 
has  not  the  means  to  buy  real  jewelry,  one 
should  appear  adorned  only  by  one's 
beauty  and  grace,  which,  after  all,  are 
the  rarest  of  ornaments." 

"I  know  very  well  that  you  are  right," 
she  answered  with  a  sweet  smile,  "but 
what  would  you  have  me  do?  I  like 
these  things.  It's  my  vice,  and  I  can't 
make  myself  over.  I  should  have  adored 
real  jewels."  And  she  poured  necklaces 
over  her  fingers  and  made  crystal  facets 
shimmer  as  she  added :  "Do  look  and  see 
how  well  it's  done.  One  would  swear  that 
it  is  real." 

"You  have  the  tastes  of  a  Bohemian," 
he  observed,  smiling. 

Sometimes  in  the  evening,  as  they  sat 
alone  at  the  corner  of  the  fire,  she  brought 
out  the  morocco  box  which  contained  the 
"rubbish,"  as  Lantin  had  styled  it,  and 
placed  it  on  the  tea-table.  She  began  to 
examine  the  imitation  jewelry  with  pas- 
sionate attention,  as  if  she  were  able  to 
relish  some  deep,  secret  delight,  and  she 
would  insist  upon  putting  a  necklace 


THE  JEWELS  5Q 

around  her  husband's  neck,  only  to  burst 
into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"How  funny  you  look!"  she  would  ex- 
claim, and  then  throw  herself  on  his  neck 
and  kiss  him  as  if  distracted. 

On  a  cold  winter's  night  she  had  been  to 
the  opera,  and  returned  shivering  from 
head  to  foot.  The  following  day  she 
began  to  cough.  Eight  days  later  she 
died  of  pneumonia. 

Lantin  narrowly  missed  following  her  to 
the  grave.  His  despair  was  such  that  his 
hair  turned  white  in  a  month.  He  cried 
from  morning  till  night,  his  soul  racked 
with  intolerable  suffering  and  haunted  by 
the  memory  of  her — her  smile,  her  voice, 
and  her  consummate  charm. 

Time  did  not  relieve  his  anguish. 
Frequently  during  office  hours,  while  his 
colleagues  discussed  daily  happenings,  one 
could  see  his  cheeks  suddenly  expand, 
his  nose  wrinkle,  his  eyes  fill  with  tears, 
and,  making  a  fearful  face,  he  would 
burst  out  sobbing. 

He  had  kept  the  room  of  his  companion 
intact,  and  every  day  locked  himself  in  to 


60  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

think  of  her;  all  the  furniture,  and  even 
her  clothes,  remained  just  as  they  had 
been  left  the  last  day. 

But  life  dealt  harshly  with  him.  His 
salary,  which  in  the  hands  of  his  wife  had 
sufficed  for  all  the  needs  of  the  household, 
was  at  present  insufficient  for  himself 
alone.  And  he  asked  himself,  in  amaze- 
ment, how  she  had  managed  to  provide 
him  with  excellent  wines  and  give  him 
delicate  food  which  he  could  no  longer 
provide  with  his  modest  means. 

He  contracted  debts  and  was  obliged 
to  raise  money  in  the  manner  of  people 
who  are  reduced  to  expedients.  At  last, 
one  morning,  an  entire  week  before  the 
end  of  the  month,  rinding  himself  with- 
out a  copper,  he  thought  of  selling  some- 
thing, and  at  once  it  occurred  to  him  to  get 
rid  of  some  of  his  wife's  "rubbish."  In 
the  depths  of  his  heart  there  still  lin- 
gered a  certain  hatred  for  these  "make- 
believes"  which  had  formerly  irritated 
him.  Even  the  sight  of  them,  every  day, 
tainted  the  memory  of  his  loved  one  a 
little. 


THE  JEWELS  6 1 

He  searched  for  a  long  time  in  the  heap 
of  tinsel  she  had  left  behind,  because  up 
to  the  last  days  of  her  life  she  had  ob- 
stinately continued  to  buy  them,  bring- 
ing home  some  new  object  almost  every 
evening;  and  he  selected  the  large  neck- 
lace which  she  seemed  to  prefer.  He 
thought  it  might  possibly  be  worth  six 
or  eight  francs,  because  it  was  really  very 
careful  work  for  imitation-ware. 

He  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  set  out  for 
the  Ministry,  following  the  boulevards  and 
looking  for  the  shop  of  a  jeweler  which 
would  inspire  him  with  confidence. 

He  finally  found  one,  and  entered, 
rather  ashamed  to  reveal  his  misery  in 
this  manner,  by  attempting  to  sell  some- 
thing of  so  little  value. 

"Monsieur,"  he  began,  "I  should  like 
to  know  the  value  of  this  article." 

The  dealer  took  the  necklace,  examined 
it,  turned  it  over,  took  a  magnifying- 
glass,  called  a  clerk,  made  some  observa- 
tions to  him  in  a  low  voice,  and  placed  it 
on  the  counter  and  looked  at  it  from  a 
distance  to  better  judge  the  effect. 


62  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

Monsieur  Lantin,  embarrassed  by  all 
these  ceremonies,  had  opened  his  mouth 
to  exclaim,  "Oh,  I  know  very  well  it's 
worth  nothing,"  when  the  jeweler  pre- 
vented him. 

"  Monsieur,  this  is  worth  from  twelve  to 
fifteen  thousand  francs,  but  I  could  not 
buy  it  unless  you  let  me  know  exactly 
how  you  got  it." 

The  widower's  eyes  opened  to  an  enor- 
mous size,  and  he  remained  gaping,  unable 
to  understand.  Finally  he  stammered: 
"You  say  .  .  .  Are  you  sure?" 

The  other  misinterpreted  his  aston- 
ishment, and  replied,  dryly:  "You  can 
look  elsewhere  and  see  if  they  will  offer 
you  more.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it 
is  worth  fifteen  thousand  at  the  most. 
Come  back  if  you  have  no  better  offer." 

Monsieur  Lantin,  quite  idiotic,  picked 
up  his  necklace  and  left,  obeying  a  con- 
fused yearning  for  solitude  and  reflection. 

But  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  street 
he  was  seized  with  laughter.  "The  im- 
becile! Oh,  the  imbecile!"  he  thought. 
"What  if  I  had  taken  him  at  his  word. 


THE  JEWELS  63 

There's  a  jeweler  who  doesn't  know  the 
real  article  from  imitation-ware." 

And  he  entered  another  dealer's,  at 
the  head  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  As 
soon  as  the  jeweler  saw  the  article  he 
exclaimed : 

"  I  certainly  know  that.  It  came  from 
my  store." 

"  How  much  is  it  worth?"  asked  Lantin, 
very  agitated. 

"Monsieur,  I  sold  it  for  twenty-five 
thousand.  I  am  ready  to  take  it  back 
for  eighteen  thousand  as  soon  as  you 
explain,  to  conform  to  the  legal  require- 
ments, how  you  happen  to  be  in  pos- 
session of  it." 

At  this  Monsieur  Lantin  sat  down, 
paralyzed  with  amazement.  "But  .  .  . 
but  .  .  .  monsieur,"  he  continued,  "ex- 
amine it  carefully.  Up  to  the  present  I 
thought  it  was  ...  er  ...  an  imitation." 

"Will  you  give  me  your  name,  mon- 
sieur?" the  jeweler  asked. 

"  Certainly.  My  name  is  Lantin.  I'm 
employed  at  the  Ministry  of  the  Interior, 
and  live  at  16  Rue  des  Martyrs." 


64  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

The  merchant  opened  his  files,  searched, 
and  began:  "As  a  matter  of  fact  this 
necklace  was  sent  to  the  address  of 
Madame  Lantin,  16  Rue  des  Martyrs,  on 
July  20,  1876." 

And  the  two  men  looked  each  other  in 
the  eye,  the  employee  dumb  with  surprise, 
the  goldsmith  scenting  a  thief. 

The  latter  continued:  "Will  you  leave 
this  necklace  with  me  for  twenty-four 
hours  and  I'll  give  you  a  receipt." 

"Why,  yes,  certainly,"  Monsieur  Lan- 
tin stammered.  And  he  left,  folding  up 
the  paper,  which  he  put  in  his  pocket. 
He  crossed  the  street  and  walked  up  it 
again,  only  to  notice  that  he  had  blun- 
dered in  his  direction ;  then  he  went  down 
to  the  Tuileries,  crossed  the  Seine,  again 
saw  his  mistake,  and  returned  to  the 
Champs-filysees,  without  a  clear  idea  in 
his  head.  He  made  an  effort  to  reason, 
to  understand.  His  wife  had  not  been 
able  to  buy  a  thing  of  such  value — no, 
certainly  not.  .  .  .  Why,  then  it  must  be 
a  present.  A  present!  A  present  from 
whom?  Why? 


THE  JEWELS  65 

He  had  stopped  and  remained  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  avenue.  A 
horrible  doubt  hovered  about  him.  .  .  . 
She  .  .  .  Could  she  have  been  capable? 
.  .  .  Why,  then,  all  the  other  jewels  were 
also  presents !  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
earth  had  begun  to  sway,  that  a  tree  op- 
posite him  was  falling.  He  stretched  out 
his  arms  and  collapsed  in  a  faint. 

He  regained  consciousness  in  a  phar- 
macy where  the  passers-by  had  carried 
him.  He  went  home  in  a  cab,  and 
locked  himself  in.  He  cried  desperately 
till  nightfall,  biting  his  handkerchief  to 
smother  his  sobs,  and  then  went  to  bed, 
prostrated  with  fatigue,  and  sank  into  a 
heavy  slumber. 

A  ray  of  sunlight  wakened  him,  and  he 
slowly  got  up  to  go  to  the  Ministry.  It 
was  hard  to  have  to  work  after  such  up- 
heavals, and  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  ask  his  chief  to  be  excused;  so  he 
wrote  to  him.  Then  he  remembered  that 
he  would  have  to  return  to  the  jeweler's, 
and  he  blushed  crimson  with  shame.  He 
deliberated  for  a  long  time.  After  all,  he 


66  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

couldn't  leave  the  necklace  with  that  man. 
He  dressed  and  went  out. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  the  blue  sky 
stretched  over  the  city,  which  seemed  to 
smile.  Idlers  sauntered  along  with  their 
hands  in  their  pockets. 

"  How  happy  one  is  when  one  has  mon- 
ey," Lantin  thought,  as  he  watched  them 
pass.  "With  money  one  can  even  brush 
away  sorrow;  one  can  go  where  one  likes; 
one  can  travel  and  amuse  oneself.  Oh, 
if  I  were  rich!" 

He  noticed  that  he  was  hungry,  not 
having  eaten  since  the  night  before. 
But  his  pockets  were  empty,  and  he  re- 
membered the  necklace.  Eighteen  thou- 
sand francs!  Eighteen  thousand  irancs! 
That  was  a  tidy  sum. 

He  reached  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  be- 
gan to  walk  back  and  forth  on  the  side- 
walk opposite  the  shop.  Eighteen  thou- 
sand francs !  Twenty  times  he  was  on  the 
point  of  entering,  but  shame  always  pre- 
vented him. 

Yet  he  was  hungry,  very  hungry,  and 
without  a  copper.  He  suddenly  decided, 


THE  JEWELS  67 

crossed  the  street  on  the  run  to  avoid 
giving  himself  time  to  think,  and  hurried 
into  the  goldsmith's. 

As  soon  as  the  dealer  saw  him  he  was 
insidiously  attentive,  and  offered  him 
an  arm-chair  with  genial  urbanity.  The 
clerks  themselves  appeared,  with  eyes 
and  lips  unmistakably  hilarious,  to  steal 
a  glance  at  him. 

"I  have  investigated,  monsieur,"  the 
dealer  began,  "and  if  you  are  still  in- 
clined to  sell,  I  am  ready  to  pay  you  the 
sum  I  offered." 

"Why,  certainly,"  the  employee  stam- 
mered. 

The  goldsmith  took  eighteen  large  bills 
from  a  drawer,  which  he  counted  and 
handed  to  Lantin,  who  signed  a  little  re- 
ceipt, and  with  a  trembling  hand  put  the 
money  in  his  pocket.  Then  as  he  was 
about  to  leave  he  turned  to  the  dealer, 
who  was  still  smiling. 

"I  have  ...  er  ...  other  jewels," 
he  began,  with  downcast  eyes,  "that 
came  to  me  from  the  same  legacy. 
Would  you  care  to  buy  them  also?" 


68  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

"Why,  certainly,  monsieur." 
The  dealer  bowed,  and  a  clerk  moved 
away  to  laugh  at  his  ease,  while  another 
blew  his  nose  noisily. 

"I  shall  bring  them  to  you,"  Lantin  re- 
plied, unmoved,  but  very  red  and  solemn. 
And  he  took  a  carriage  to  go  for  the 

1  u_.  U 

jewelry.  f 

When  he  returned  to  the  merchant's  he . 
had  not  yet  lunched.     They  began  to  ex- 
amine the  things,  piece  by  piece,  valu- 
ing each.    Nearly  all  came  from  the  same 
shop. 

Lantin  now  quibbled  over  the  valu- 
ations, and  became  angry  and  insisted 
upon  their  showing  him  the  book  of  sales, 
and  spoke  louder  and  louder  as  the  sum 
total  expanded. 

The  big  diamond  ear-rings  were  worth 
twenty  thousand  francs;  the  bracelets, 
thirty-five  thousand;  the  brooches,  rings, 
and  medallions,  sixteen  thousand.  A  neck- 
lace of  emeralds  and  sapphires  brought 
fourteen  thousand;  a  solitaire  suspended 
from  a  fine  chain  forming  a  necklace 
reached  forty  thousand.  Altogether  they 


THE  JEWELS  69 

attained  the  sum  of  one  hundred  and 
ninety-six  thousand  francs. 

"This  comes  from  a  person  who  put 
all  her  savings  in  jewels,"  the  merchant 
observed,  with  sly  joviality. 

"Well,  it's  one  way  like  any  other  of 
investing  one's  money,"  Lantin  replied, 
with  dignity.  And  he  left,  having  got  the 
buyer  to  agree  to  have  a  counter  appraise- 
ment of  the  articles  on  the  following  day. 

When  he  was  in  the  street  he  looked  at 
the  Vend6me  Column  and  felt  like  climb- 
ing up  it,  just  as  if  it  were  the  greasy  pole 
in  some  Utopian  tournament.  He  felt 
light  enough  on  his  feet  to  have  played 
leap-frog  over  the  statue  of  the  Emperor, 
perched  up  there  in  the  sky. 

He  lunched  at  Voisin's,  and  drank  wine 
at  twenty  francs  a  bottle.  Then  he  took 
a  cab  and  made  a  round  of  the  Bois.  He 
watched  the  carriages  with  a  certain  con- 
tempt, oppressed  by  a  desire  to  call  to 
the  passers-by: 

"I,  too,  am  rich!  I  have  two  hundred 
thousand  francs !' ' 

Memory  brought  him  a  vision  of  the 


70  THE  SECOND  ODD   NUMBER 

Ministry.  He  drove  there  and,  entering 
his  chief's  office  with  deliberation,  an- 
nounced: 

"I  come,  monsieur,  to  tender  my 
resignation.  I  have  just  inherited  three 
hundred  thousand  francs." 

He  went  to  shake  hands  with  his  old 
colleagues,  and  confidentially  unfolded  his 
plans  for  his  new  existence;  then  he 
dined  at  the  Cafe  Anglais. 

Finding  himself  seated  near  a  gentle- 
man who  appeared  distinguished,  he 
could  not  resist  an  itching  to  confide  in 
him,  rather  coquettishly,  that  he  had 
just  inherited  four  hundred  thousand 
francs. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  not 
bored  at  the  theater,  and  passed  the  night 
with  women. 

Six  months  later  he  married.  His  sec- 
ond wife  was  very  virtuous,  but  of  an 
exacting  character.  She  made  him  suf- 
fer a  great  deal. 


V 
FEAR 


FEAR 


THE  train  flew  at  full  speed  in  the 
darkness. 

I  was  alone,  sitting  opposite  an  old 
gentleman  who  looked  out  of  the  window. 
One  detected  a  strong  odor  of  phenol  in 
the  car  of  the  P.  L.  M.,  which  came,  no 
doubt,  from  Marseilles. 

It  was  a  moonless  night,  breathless  and 
suffocating.  There  were  no  stars,  and 
the  speeding  train  threw  in  our  faces  its 
warm,  damp,  and  stifling  breath. 

Having  left  Paris  three  hours  before, 
we  were  now  making  for  the  center 
of  France  without  seeing  anything  of 
the  country  through  which  we  were 
passing. 

Suddenly  we  saw  an  almost  fantastic 


74  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

apparition.  Around  a  great  bonfire  in 
the  woods  two  men  were  standing. 

For  a  second  there  appeared  to  be 
two  wretches  in  rags,  reddened  by  the 
dazzling  light  of  the  fire,  their  bearded 
faces  turned  toward  us,  while  about  them, 
as  in  the  stage-setting  of  a  drama,  the 
green  trees  appeared — a  green  crisp  and 
shiny — their  trunks  struck  by  the  vivid 
reflection  of  the  flame,  and  the  foliage 
permeated,  penetrated,  and  flooded  by 
the  light  which  streamed  through  it. 

Then  everything  was  black  again. 

It  was  certainly  a  strange  vision. 
What  were  those  two  vagrants  doing  in 
this  forest?  Why  this  bonfire  in  the 
stifling  night? 

"It  is  exactly  midnight,  monsieur, " 
said  my  neighbor,  taking  out  his  watch, 
"and  we  have  just  seen  a  remarkable 
thing." 

I  nodded,  and  we  began  to  talk  and  to 
attempt  an  explanation  for  the  doings 
of  these  people:  were  they  crooks  burn- 
ing evidence  or  sorcerers  preparing  a 
philter?  In  midsummer  a  bonfire  is  not 


FEAR  75 

lighted  in  a  forest  at  midnight  to  make 
soup.  Then  what  could  they  be  doing? 
We  could  imagine  nothing  reasonable. 

And  my  neighbor  began  to  talk.  He 
was  an  old  man  whose  profession  I  was 
unable  to  determine.  An  original  per- 
son, assuredly,  well  informed  and  who 
appeared  to  be  perhaps  a  little  unbal- 
anced. 

But  do  we  ever  know  who  are  the  sane 
and  who  are  the  mad  men  in  this  life, 
where  reason  should  not  infrequently  be 
called  foolishness  and  madness  genius? 

"I  am  glad  to  have  seen  that,"  he  said. 
"I  experienced  for  a  few  minutes  a  lost 
sensation. 

"As  we  lift  the  veil  of  the  unknown  we 
deplete  the  imagination  of  man.  Do  you 
not  find,  monsieur,  that  the  night  is  very 
empty  and  its  gloom  quite  common- 
place now  that  we  have  no  more  ap- 
paritions? 

"How  agitating  the  world  must  once 
have  been  when  it  was  so  mysterious! 

"We  say  to  ourselves,  'No  more  of  the 
fantastic,  no  more  strange  beliefs — all  the 


76  THE  SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

inexplicable  is  explicable.'  The  super- 
natural sinks  like  a  lake  which  a  canal 
empties;  science  from  day  to  day  ex- 
tends the  boundaries  of  the  marvelous. 

"Well,  I,  monsieur,  belong  to  the  old 
race  that  loves  to  believe.  I  belong  to 
the  old  naive  race  that  is  accustomed  not 
to  understand,  not  to  search,  not  to  know; 
made  for  the  surrounding  mysteries  and 
refusing  the  simple  and  definite  truth. 

"Yes,  we  depleted  the  imagination  in 
revealing  the  invisible.  Our  earth  ap- 
pears to  us  to-day  like  an  abandoned 
world — empty  and  naked.  The  beliefs 
have  vanished  that  lent  it  poetry. 

"When  I  go  out  at  night,  how  I  should 
like  to  shudder  with  that  dread  which 
makes  old  women  cross  themselves  by  the 
walls  of  cemeteries,  and  to  be  the  last 
of  the  superstitious  to  fly  before  the 
strange  vapors  and  the  will-o'-the-wisps 
of  the  marshes!  How  I  should  like  to 
believe  in  that  vague,  terrifying  some- 
thing which  one  imagined  one  felt  passing 
in  the  gloom ! 

"How  the  darkness  of  the  night  must 


FEAR  77 

once  have  been  somber  and  terrible  when 
it  was  full  of  fabulous  creatures — un- 
known, stealthy,  and  evil;  whose  forms 
we  were  unable  to  perceive,  yet  the  ap- 
prehension of  whom  froze  the  heart ;  whose 
occult  power  passed  the  limits  of  our 
experience  and  whose  ultimate  assault 
was  inevitable! 

"With  the  supernatural  real  fear  has 
disappeared  from  the  world,  because  we 
are  really  only  afraid  of  what  we  do  not 
understand.  Visible  dangers  can  alarm, 
agitate,  and  frighten.  But  what  is  that 
compared  with  a  convulsion  of  the  soul 
at  the  thought  that  one  will  meet  a 
wandering  specter,  that  one  will  fall  into 
the  clutches  of  a  corpse,  or  that  one  will 
see  advancing  one  of  those  ghastly  beasts 
which  the  imagination  of  man  has  con- 
trived? The  shadows  seem  to  me  clear 
since  they  are  no  longer  haunted. 

"The  proof  of  this  is  that  if  we  were 
to  suddenly  find  ourselves  in  those  woods 
we  should  be  pursued  by  the  image  of 
those  two  singular  beings  who  have  just 
appeared  to  us  in  the  light  of  their  fire, 


78  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

much  more  than  by  any  apprehension  of 
real  danger. 

"We  are  really  only  afraid  of  what  we 
do  not  understand,"  he  repeated. 

And  suddenly  a  recollection  came  to 
me,  the  recollection  of  a  story  Tour- 
genief  told  us,  one  Sunday  at  Gustav 
Flaubert's.  If  he  has  written  this  some- 
where, I  am  unaware  of  it. 

Nobody  has  known  better  than  the 
great  Russian  novelist  how  to  make  a 
tremor  of  the  veiled  unknown  possess 
the  soul,  and  to  permit  us  to  perceive  in 
the  uncertain  light  of  a  strange  tale  an 
entire  world  of  things  agitating,  uncer- 
tain, and  menacing. 

With  him  one  feels  a  vague  fear  of  the 
invisible,  the  fear  of  the  unknown  that 
lurks  behind  the  wall,  behind  the  door, 
behind  apparent  life.  With  him  we  are 
suddenly  pierced  by  doubtful  rays  which 
illumine  only  enough  to  increase  our  anx- 
iety. 

He  seems  to  show  us  at  times  the 
significance  of  bizarre  coincidences,  of 
unexpected  rapprochements  of  circum- 


FEAR  79 

stances  fortuitous  in  appearance  but 
which  may  be  directed  by  a  hidden, 
crafty  power.  We  feel  with  him  an 
imperceptible  thread  which  guides  us  in  a 
mysterious  fashion  through  life,  as  in  a 
nebulous  dream,  the  significance  of  which 
unceasingly  escapes  us. 

He  does  not  enter  the  supernatural 
hardily,  like  Poe  or  Hoffman.  He  tells 
a  simple  tale  in  which  there  is  a  hint  of 
something  vaguely  agitating. 

That  day  he  also  said,  "We  are  really 
only  afraid  of  what  we  do  not  under- 
stand." 

He  was  seated,  or,  rather,  sunk  down, 
in  a  large  arm-chair,  with  dangling  arms 
and  limp,  outstretched  legs;  his  head  all 
white  and  submerged  in  that  great  flood 
of  beard  and  silver  hair  which  gave  him 
the  appearance  of  an  eternal  father  or 
of  some  river  of  Ovid. 

He  spoke  slowly,  with  a  certain  idleness 
that  lent  charm  to  his  phrases  and  a  cer- 
tain hesitation  of  the  tongue,  a  little 
heavy,  which  underlined  with  precision 
the  coloring  of  the  words.  His  pale  eyes, 


80  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

wide  open,  reflected  like  the  eyes  of  a 
child  all  the  emotions  of  his  thought. 

He  told  us  this : 

As  a  young  man  he  was  hunting  in  a 
forest  of  Russia.  He  had  walked  the 
entire  day,  and  toward  the  end  of  the 
afternoon  arrived  at  the  banks  of  a  calm 
river. 

It  wandered  in  and  out  beneath  the 
trees,  deep,  cold,  and  clear,  and  was  full 
of  floating  weeds. 

An  imperious  desire  seized  the  hunter 
to  plunge  into  this  transparent  water. 
He  undressed  and  jumped  into  the  cur- 
rent. He  was  a  very  big,  sturdy,  vigorous 
lad,  and  a  good  swimmer. 

Grazed  by  the  weeds  and  roots  and 
happy  to  feel  against  his  flesh  the  light 
rustle  of  the  tropical  creepers,  he  let 
himself  float  softly  with  a  tranquil  soul. 

Suddenly  a  hand  was  placed  on  his 
shoulder. 

He  turned  with  a  start  and  saw  a  hor- 
rible creature  which  looked  at  him  with 
avidity.  It  resembled  a  woman  or  a 
pouched  monkey.  It  had  an  enormous 


FEAR  8 I 

wrinkled  face  that  grinned  at  him.  Two 
nameless  things  —  breasts,  no  doubt  — 
floated  before  her,  and  the  excessive  hair, 
tangled  and  reddened  by  the  sun,  sur- 
rounded her  face  and  floated  on  the 
water. 

Tourgenief  felt  himself  shaken  by  a 
hideous  fear,  the  glacial  fear  of  super- 
natural things. 

Without  reasoning  or  understanding, 
he  began  to  swim  desperately  toward  the 
bank.  But  the  monster  swam  more  rap- 
idly than  he  and  touched  his  neck,  his 
back,  and  his  legs  with  little  giggles  of 
joy.  The  young  man,  crazy  with  horror, 
finally  reached  the  shore  and  ran  at  full 
speed  through  the  woods  without  even 
thinking  of  getting  his  clothes  and  gun. 

The  horrible  creature  kept  pace  with 
him,  and  followed,  still  gibbering. 

Exhausted  and  frozen  with  terror,  the 
fugitive  was  about  to  fall  when  a  child 
who  had  been  herding  goats  ran  up  and, 
armed  with  a  switch,  began  to  beat  the 
horrible  monster,  who  ran  away,  shrieking 
with  pain.  And  Tourgenief  saw  her  van- 


82  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

ish  among  the  foliage  like  the  mate  of 
a  gorilla. 

It  was  a  mad  woman  who  had  lived  for 
thirty  years  in  these  woods  on  the  charity 
of  the  shepherds,  and  who  passed  half  of 
her  days  swimming  in  the  river. 

The  Russian  writer  added,  "  I  was  never 
so  frightened  in  my  life,  because  I  did  not 
understand  what  this  monster  could  be." 

My  companion,  to  whom  I  had  just  told 
this  adventure,  continued: 

"We  are  only  afraid  of  what  we  do  not 
understand.  That  fearful  convulsion  of 
the  soul  which  is  called  horror  is  only  felt 
when  to  fear  is  added  the  superstitious 
terror  of  past  centuries.  I  have  experi- 
enced this  myself  in  all  its  horror  for  a 
thing  so  simple  that  I  hardly  dare  to 
mention  it. 

"I  was  traveling  in  Brittany,  quite 
alone  and  on  foot.  I  had  walked  across 
Finistere,  that  desolate  waste  land,  that 
naked  country  where  only  the  gorse  grows 
by  the  sacred  stones — the  haunted  stones. 
The  night  before  I  had  visited  the  head- 
land of  Raz,  that  end  of  the  Old  World 


FEAR  83 

where  two  oceans  are  in  eternal  conflict — 
the  Atlantic  and  the  Channel — and  my 
mind  was  full  of  legend,  of  stories  read  or 
told  in  this  country  full  of  folklore  and 
superstitions. 

"I  was  going  from  Penmarch  to  Pont 
1'Abbe  at  night.  Do  you  know  Pen- 
march?  A  flat  beach — everything  flat — 
flatter  than  the  sea,  it  seems.  One  sees 
that  sea  everywhere,  gray  and  threaten- 
ing, with  its  reefs  foaming  like  furious 
beasts. 

"I  had  dined  at  an  inn  for  fishermen, 
and  was  now  walking  on  a  straight  road 
between  two  heaths.  It  was  very  dark. 

"From  time  to  time  a  Druid  stone, 
like  a  looming  phantom,  seemed  to  watch 
me  pass,  and  little  by  little  my  soul  was 
thrilled  by  a  vague  apprehension  —  of 
what?  I  do  not  know.  There  are  nights 
when  one  believes  oneself  grazed  by 
spirits;  when  the  soul  shudders  without 
reason  and  the  heart  beats  with  the 
confused  fear  of  this  invisible  something, 
which  I,  for  my  part,  regret. 

"This   road    seemed   long — long    and 


84  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

interminably  empty.  No  sound  but  the 
immense  and  monotonous  booming  of 
the  surf  over  there  behind  me,  and  at 
times  this  threatening,  monotonous  sound 
seemed  quite  near — so  near  that  I  thought 
it  at  my  heels,  running  along  the  plain 
with  its  front  of  foam,  so  that  I  wanted 
to  escape  and  to  run  at  top  speed  away 
from  it. 

"The  wind,  a  low  wind  blowing  in 
squalls,  made  the  gorse  whistle  about  me, 
and  in  spite  of  my  walking  fast  I  felt 
cold  in  the  arms  and  legs — a  nasty  cold 
born  of  dread. 

"Oh,  how  I  longed  to  meet  somebody! 

"It  was  now  so  dark  that  I  could 
barely  distinguish  the  road.  Suddenly 
I  heard  before  me  a  faint  sound  of  dis- 
tant rumbling.  'Here's  a  carriage,'  I 
thought.  Then  I  heard  nothing  more. 

"In  about  a  minute  I  was  aware  of  the 
same  noise  nearer. 

"Yet  I  could  see  no  light;  but  there 
was  nothing  remarkable  in  this,  I  argued, 
in  this  savage  country. 

"The  noise  ceased  again,  and  then  re- 


FEAR  85 

turned.  It  was  too  light  to  have  been  a 
cart,  and  then  again  I  did  not  hear  the 
trotting  of  the  horse,  which  astonished 
me,  as  the  night  was  calm. 

"'What  can  it  be?'  I  pondered. 

"It  was  approaching  rapidly  —  very 
rapidly.  I  was  certain  I  could  hear  noth- 
ing but  a  wheel — no  beating  of  horseshoes 
or  hoofs — nothing.  What  could  it  be? 

"  It  was  quite  close — quite  close.  With 
an  instinctive  movement  of  fear  I  threw 
myself  into  a  ditch  and  saw  a  wheelbarrow 
approach  and  pass  me,  moving  all  by 
itself.  Nobody  was  pushing  it.  Yes,  a 
wheelbarrow — all  by  itself. 

"  My  heart  thumped  so  rapidly  that  I 
collapsed  on  the  grass  and  listened  to  the 
rumbling  of  the  wheel  which  was  vanish- 
ing and  heading  for  the  sea.  I  did  not 
dare  to  get  up  or  to  walk  or  to  make  a 
movement,  because  if  it  had  returned  and 
pursued  me  I  should  have  died  of  terror. 

"  I  was  a  long  time  in  composing  myself 
— a  very  long  time — and  I  walked  the  rest 
of  the  road  with  such  dread  in  my  soul  that 
the  least  noise  stopped  my  breathing. 


86  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

"Isn't  it  stupid,  eh?  But  what  a 
fright !  In  thinking  it  over  later  I  under- 
stood. A  barefoot  child  was  doubtless 
leading  this  wheelbarrow,  and  I  had 
looked  for  the  head  of  a  man  at  the 
ordinary  height. 

"Can  you  understand  it — when  one's 
mind  is  already  quivering  with  the  super- 
natural— a  wheelbarrow  running  alone? 
Such  fear!" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  con- 
tinued: "Well,  monsieur,  we  are  wit- 
nessing a  curious  and  terrible  spectacle — 
this  invasion  of  cholera. 

"The  phenol  these  cars  are  poisoned 
with  hints  at  its  being  here  somewhere. 

"You  should  see  Toulon  at  the  present 
moment.  Yes,  you  feel  instinctively  it 
is  there.  It.  And  it  is  not  the  fear  of 
the  disease  that  distracts  these  people. 
The  cholera  is  another  thing — it  is  the 
Invisible;  it  is  the  scourge  of  other  days, 
of  bygone  times — a  sort  of  malevolent 
spirit  which  returns  and  astonishes  us  as 
much  as  it  terrifies,  because  it  seems  to 
belong  to  past  ages. 


FEAR  87 

"The  doctors  make  me  laugh  with 
their  microbe.  It  is  not  an  insect  that 
terrifies  men  to  the  point  of  jumping 
from  windows;  it  is  the  cholera,  the  un- 
utterably terrible  thing  that  has  come 
from  the  depths  of  the  Orient. 

"Cross  Toulon,  and  you  will  find  them 
dancing  in  the  streets. 

"Why  dance  these  days  of  death? 
They  are  setting  off  fireworks  in  the 
country  about  the  city;  they  make  holi- 
day bonfires,  and  the  orchestras  play 
joyous  airs  on  all  the  public  promenades. 

"Why  all  this  madness? 

"It  is  because  It  is  there — because 
they  defy  It,  not  the  microbe,  but  the 
cholera,  and  they  want  to  swagger  before 
It  as  we  do  before  an  enemy  who  is  stalk- 
ing us.  It  is  for  It  that  they  dance  and 
laugh  and  cry;  for  It  that  they  build 
bonfires  and  play  waltzes — for  It,  the 
Spirit  that  kills  and  whose  presence  one 
feels  everywhere,  invisible  and  threaten- 
ing, like  one  of  those  ancient,  evil  genii 
which  were  conjured  up  by  the  barbarian 

priests." 
7 


VI 
TWO   FRIENDS 


TWO   FRIENDS 


PARIS  was  besieged  and  famished — at 
its  last  gasp.  On  the  housetops  the  spar- 
rows were  rarely  seen  and  the  sewers  were 
depleted.  Anything  was  eaten. 

As  he  strolled  along  the  exterior  boule- 
vards, on  a  clear  morning  in  January,  his 
hands  in  the  trousers  pockets  of  his  uni- 
form and  his  stomach  empty,  Monsieur 
Morissot,  a  watchmaker  by  trade  and  a 
loafer  by  accident,  came  to  a  dead  stop 
before  a  fellow-tradesman  whom  he  rec- 
ognized as  a  friend.  It  was  Monsieur 
Sauvage,  an  acquaintance  of  the  river- 
side. 

Every  Sunday  before  the  war  Morissot 
left  at  daybreak,  a  bamboo  pole  in  one 
hand  and  a  tin  box  on  his  back.  He  took 


92  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

the  train  for  Argenteuil  and  got  off  at 
Colombes,  proceeding  on  foot  to  the  isl- 
and of  Maranthe. 

He  had  hardly  arrived  at  the  place  of 
his  dreams  when  he  began  to  fish;  he 
fished  until  nightfall. 

Here  he  met  every  Sunday  a  stout, 
jovial  little  man — Monsieur  Sauvage,  a 
haberdasher  from  the  Rue  Notre  Dame 
de  Lorette,  another  fanatical  fisherman. 
They  frequently  passed  half  a  day  side 
by  side,  their  lines  in  their  hands  and 
their  feet  swinging  above  the  current, 
and  a  friendship  had  sprung  up  between 
them. 

On  certain  days  they  did  not  talk. 
Sometimes  they  spoke,  but  they  under- 
stood each  other  admirably  without  say- 
ing anything,  having  similar  tastes  and 
identical  sensations. 

In  the  spring,  at  about  ten  in  the 
morning,  when  the  rejuvenated  sun  made 
that  light  mist  which  drifts  with  the 
current  hover  over  the  tranquil  river,  and 
touched  the  backs  of  the  two  passionate 
fishermen  with  the  genial  warmth  of  the 


TWO  FRIENDS  93 

new  season,  Morissot  at  times  said  to  his 
neighbor : 

"How  delightful!    Eh?" 

And  Monsieur  Sauvage  answered,  "I 
know  nothing  better." 

And  this  sufficed  for  them  to  under- 
stand and  to  esteem  each  other. 

In  the  autumn,  toward  the  end  of  the 
day,  when  the  sky,  blood-red  in  the  set- 
ting sun,  threw  on  the  water  the  shapes  of 
scarlet  clouds  and  dyed  with  purple  the 
entire  river — when  the  flaming  horizon 
reddened  as  with  fire  the  two  friends  and 
bathed  in  gold  the  trees  already  turned 
to  red  and  quivering  with  the  chill  of 
winter — Monsieur  Sauvage  gazed  and, 
smiling  at  Monsieur  Morissot,  observed: 

"What  a  spectacle!" 

And  Morissot,  seized  with  wonder, 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  his  float, 
answered,  "That's  better  than  the  boule- 
vards. Eh?" 

As  soon  as  they  had  recognized  each 
other  they  shook  hands  energetically, 
much  moved  at  finding  themselves  in 
such  different  circumstances. 


94  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

"  These  are  nice  events,"  murmured 
Monsieur  Sauvage  with  a  sigh. 

"And  what  weather!"  groaned  Mo- 
rissot,  very  dismal. 

The  sky,  in  fact,  was  all  blue  and  full 
of  light. 

They  began  to  walk  side  by  side, 
dreamy  and  sad. 

Morissot  continued:  "How  about  the 
fishing?  Eh?  What  a  pleasant  memory!" 

"When  shall  we  return  there?"  Mon- 
sieur Sauvage  queried. 

They  entered  a  small  cafe  and  drank  an 
absinthe  together;  then  they  continued 
their  walk  along  the  streets. 

Morissot  suddenly  stopped.  "How 
about  taking  another  of  those  green 
ones?  Eh?" 

Monsieur  Sauvage  consented.  "I'm 
at  your  disposal."  And  they  entered  an- 
other wine-shop. 

They  were  very  dizzy  upon  leaving,  and 
muddled  like  people  who  have  fasted  and 
whose  stomach  is  full  of  alcohol.  It  was 
a  mild  day.  A  caressing  breeze  tickled 
their  faces. 


TWO  FRIENDS  95 

Monsieur  Sauvage,  whom  the  tepid  air 
had  succeeded  in  intoxicating,  stopped. 
"How  about  going  there?" 

"Where?" 

"Why,  fishing!" 

"But  where?" 

"Why,  to  our  island!  The  French  ad- 
vance posts  are  close  to  Colombes.  I 
know  Colonel  Dumoulin.  They  will  eas- 
ily let  us  pass." 

Morissot  quivered  with  desire.  "All 
right.  I'm  with  you." 

And  they  parted  to  get  their  tackle. 

An  hour  later  they  were  marching  side 
by  side  on  the  main  road.  Then  they 
reached  the  villa  occupied  by  the  colonel. 
He  smiled  at  their  request  and  consented 
to  their  whim.  They  were  under  way 
again,  provided  with  a  pass. 

They  had  soon  reached  the  advance 
posts  and  crossed  abandoned  Colombes, 
and  were  on  the  edge  of  the  little  fields  of 
vineyards  which  descended  to  the  Seine. 
It  was  about  eleven  o'clock. 

Opposite,  the  village  of  Argenteuil 
seemed  to  be  dead.  The  heights  of 


96  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

Orgemont  and  of  Samis  dominated  the 
entire  country.  The  great  plains  which 
extended  as  far  as  Nanterre  were  empty, 
quite  empty,  with  their  naked  cherry- 
trees  and  gray  earth. 

Monsieur  Sauvage,  indicating  the  sum- 
mits with  his  finger,  murmured,  "The 
Prussians  are  up  there."  And  an  un- 
easiness paralyzed  the  two  friends  in  the 
presence  of  the  deserted  country. 

"The  Prussians!"  They  had  never 
seen  any,  but  they  had  felt  them  to 
be  there  for  months,  about  Paris,  ruin- 
ing France;  pillaging,  massacring,  and 
spreading  famine  —  invisible  and  all- 
powerful.  And  a  kind  of  supersti- 
tious terror  was  added  to  the  hatred 
they  felt  for  this  unknown  and  victori- 
ous people. 

"Say,  what  if  we  should  meet  some  of 
them?"  Morissot  stammered. 

Parisian  raillery  asserted  itself  in  spite 
of  everything  as  Monsieur  Sauvage  re- 
plied, "We  will  offer  them  a  dish  of  fried 
fish." 

But  they  hesitated  to  venture  into  the 


TWO  FRIENDS  97 

country,  intimidated  by  the  silence  of  the 
entire  horizon. 

At  last  Monsieur  Sauvage  came  to  a 
decision.  "Come  along;  let  us  start; 
but  be  careful." 

And  with  anxious  eyes  and  straining 
ears  they  descended  through  the  vineyard, 
crawling  half  doubled  up  and  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  protecting  bushes. 

An  open  strip  of  land  remained  to  be 
crossed  to  reach  the  banks  of  the  river. 
They  began  to  run,  and  as  soon  as  they 
had  reached  the  steep  bank  they  crouched 
among  the  dry  reeds. 

Morissot  put  his  ear  to  the  ground  to 
hear  if  anybody  was  walking  in  the  vicin- 
ity. He  heard  nothing.  They  were 
alone,  all  alone. 

They  reassured  themselves  and  began 
to  fish. 

The  abandoned  island  of  Maranthe, 
opposite,  hid  them  from  the  other  steep 
bank.  The  little  house  of  the  restaurant 
was  closed  and  appeared  to  have  been 
forsaken  for  years. 

Monsieur    Sauvage    caught    the    first 


98  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

gudgeon;  Morissot  caught  the  second; 
and  every  other  moment  they  pulled 
their  lines  up  with  a  little  silvery  thing 
wiggling  at  the  end.  It  was  truly  mirac- 
ulous fishing. 

They  slipped  the  fish  gently  into  a 
pocket  of  a  net  which  was  immersed 
at  their  feet.  And  a  delicious  joy  per- 
vaded them  —  the  joy  that  possesses 
one  when  he  regains  a  favorite  amuse- 
ment he  has  been  deprived  of  for  a  long 
time. 

The  genial  sun  flooded  their  shoulders 
with  its  warmth.  They  no  longer  heard 
anything;  they  no  longer  thought  of  any- 
thing. They  ignored  the  rest  of  the 
world.  They  were  fishing. 

But  suddenly  a  muffled  noise  which 
seemed  to  come  from  beneath  the  earth 
shook  the  ground.  The  cannon  had 
begun  to  thunder. 

Morissot  turned  his  head,  and  above 
the  steep  bank,  over  there  at  the  left,  the 
big  silhouette  of  Mont  Valerien  had  a 
white  aigrette  on  its  brow — a  puff  of 
powder  it  had  just  belched 


TWO  FRIENDS, 


And  directly  a  seconct  jet  of  smoke 
spurted  from  the  summit  of  the  fortress; 
and  a  few  moments  later  a  new  report 
rumbled. 

Then  others  followed,  and  from  time 
to  time  the  mountain  spouted  its  breath 
of  death — breathed  out  its  milky  vapor, 
which  rose  slowly  in  the  calm  air  and 
formed  a  cloud  above  it. 

Monsieur  Sauvage  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "There  they  are  at  it  again,"  he 
said. 

Morissot,  who  was  anxiously  watching 
the  quill  of  his  float  bob  up  and  down, 
was  suddenly  seized  with  the  anger  of  a 
peaceful  man  against  these  enraged  peo- 
ple who  were  fighting,  and  growled, 
"People  must  be  stupid  to  kill  them- 
selves like  that." 

Monsieur  Sauvage  acquiesced.  "They 
are  worse  than  the  animals." 

"And  to  think  that  it  will  always  be 
like  this  as  long  as  there  are  govern- 
ments," declared  Morissot,  who  had  just 
landed  a  whitebait. 

Monsieur    Sauvage    interrupted    him. 


SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 


"  The  'Republic  would  not  have  declared 
war." 

Monsieur  Morissot  intervened.  "With 
kings  you  have  war  outside;  with  a 
republic  you  have  war  inside." 

And  they  began  to  quietly  discuss  and 
to  unravel  big  political  problems  with  the 
sane  reasoning  of  gentle  and  narrow  men, 
agreeing  on  one  point — that  they  would 
never  be  free.  And  Mont  Vale'rien  thun- 
dered without  ceasing,  demolishing  the 
French  houses  with  cannon-shot,  grinding 
out  lives,  trampling  down  human  beings, 
putting  an  end  to  many  a  dream,  to  many 
a  hoped-for  felicity,  and  opening  in  the 
hearts  of  women  and  of  young  girls — in 
the  hearts  of  mothers,  out  there  in  other 
lands — suffering  which  would  never  cease. 

"It's  life,"  declared  Monsieur  Sauvage. 

"You  had  better  say  it's  death,"  Mo- 
rissot replied,  smiling. 

But  now  they  trembled  with  fright,  be- 
ing quite  conscious  of  somebody  walking 
behind  them ;  and,  turning  their  eyes,  they 
saw  four  men  standing  at  their  backs — 
four  big,  armed,  bearded  men,  dressed 


TWO   FRIENDS  IOI 

like  domestics  in  livery,  with  flat  caps, 
and  their  rifles  aimed  at  them. 

The  two  lines  slipped  from  their  fingers, 
and  they  began  to  run  down  to  the  river. 

In  a  few  seconds  they  were  seized  and 
tied,  carried  away  and  thrown  into  a  boat 
and  transferred  to  the  island. 

And  behind  the  house  they  had  thought 
empty  they  saw  about  twenty  German 
soldiers. 

A  hairy  sort  of  giant  who  sat  astride  a 
chair,  smoking  a  large  porcelain  pipe, 
asked  them  in  excellent  French,  "Well, 
gentlemen,  did  you  make  a  good  catch?" 

A  soldier  who  had  been  careful  to  carry 
away  the  netful  of  fish  placed  it  at  the 
feet  of  the  officer. 

The  Prussian  smiled.  "Well,  well,  I 
see  that  things  were  not  going  badly. 
But  we  are  interested  in  a  different 
question.  Listen  to  me  and  don't  be 
disturbed. 

"As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  you  are  two 
spies  sent  to  watch  me.  I'm  going  to 
take  you  and  shoot  you.  You  were  pre- 
tending to  fish  to  better  conceal  your 


102  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

plans.  You  have  fallen  into  my  hands; 
so  much  the  worse  for  you.  That's  war. 

"But  as  you  left  by  the  advance  posts, 
you  certainly  have  the  password  to  re- 
turn. Give  me  the  password  and  I'll 
spare  you." 

The  two  friends,  livid,  side  by  side, 
their  hands  agitated  by  a  slight  nervous 
trembling,  were  silent. 

The  officer  continued:  "Nobody  will 
ever  know;  you  can  return  in  safety. 
The  secret  will  disappear  with  you.  If 
you  refuse,  it  means  death,  and  right 
away." 

They  remained  motionless,  without 
opening  their  mouths. 

The  Prussian,  always  calm,  continued, 
indicating  the  river  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand:  "Think  that  in  five  minutes  you 
will  be  at  tha  bottom  of  that  water.  In 
five  minutes.  You  must  have  relatives?" 

Mont  Valerien  still  thundered. 

The  fishermen  remained  standing  and 
silent.  The  German  gave  orders  in  his 
native  tongue.  Then  he  altered  the  po- 
sition of  his  chair  to  avoid  being  too 


TWO  FRIENDS  10$ 

near  the  prisoners;  and  twelve  men  with 
rifles  came  and  stood  at  ease  at  twenty 
paces. 

The  officer  repeated,  "I'll  give  you  a 
minute — not  two  seconds  more."  Then 
he  rose  suddenly  and,  approaching  the 
two  Frenchmen,  took  Morissot  under 
the  arm  and  led  him  aside,  some 
distance  away.  "Quick!  The  pass- 
word," he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Your 
comrade  will  know  nothing.  I'll  appear 
to  have  softened." 

Morissot  made  no  answer. 

The  Prussian  then  took  Monsieur 
Sauvage  aside  and  put  the  same  question 
to  him. 

Monsieur  Sauvage  made  no  answer. 

Again  they  stood  side  by  side. 

Then  the  eyes  of  Morissot  fell  by  chance 
on  the  netful  of  gudgeons,  which  had  re- 
mained on  the  grass  a  few  steps  from  him. 
A  ray  of  sunlight  touched  the  heap  of 
fish,  which  still  moved,  and  made  them 
glisten.  A  faintness  spread  over  him. 
In  spite  of  his  efforts  his  eyes  filled  with 

tears. 
8 


104  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

He  stammered,  "Adieu,  Monsieur 
Sauvage." 

"Adieu,  Monsieur  Morissot,"  Monsieur 
Sauvage  replied. 

They  shook  hands,  shaken  from  head  to 
foot  with  invisible  tremblings. 

The  officer  commanded,  "Fire!" 

Twelve  reports  rang  out  like  one. 

Monsieur  Sauvage  fell  like  a  log  on  his 
face.  Morissot,  the  larger,  oscillated, 
pivoted,  and  fell  across  his  comrade,  fac- 
ing the  sky,  while  little  bubbles  of  blood 
escaped  from  his  tunic,  riddled  at  the 
breast. 

The  German  gave  new  orders.  His 
men  dispersed  and  returned  with  ropes 
and  stones,  which  they  attached  to  the 
feet  of  the  two  dead  men ;  then  they  car- 
ried them  to  the  high  bluff. 

Mont  Valerien,  now  capped  with  a 
mountain  of  smoke,  never  ceased  thun- 
dering. 

Two  soldiers  took  Morissot  by  the 
head  and  legs;  two  others  seized  Monsieur 
Sauvage  in  the  same  manner.  The  two 
bodies,  swung  powerfully  back  and  forth 


TWO  FRIENDS  1 05 

for  an  instant,  were  thrown  far  out  and 
described  a  curve,  then  plunged  upright 
into  the  river,  the  stones  dragging  down 
the  feet. 

The  water  splashed,  boiled,  and  trem- 
bled— then  was  calm;  while  little  ripples 
headed  from  the  spot  for  the  shores. 

A  little  blood  floated. 

The  officer,  always  serene,  said  under 
his  breath,  "Now  it's  the  turn  of  the 
fish."  And  suddenly  he  saw  the  net 
with  the  gudgeons  on  the  grass.  He 
picked  it  up  and  examined  it  and  smiled. 
"Wilhelm!"  he  called. 

A  soldier  in  a  white  apron  ran  up.  And 
the  Prussian,  tossing  him  the  catch  of  the 
two  executed  men,  commanded: 

"Fry  all  these  little  things  for  me  at 
once  while  they  are  still  alive.  They  will 
be  delicious."  Then  he  resumed  his  pipe. 


VII 
RELICS   OF    THE   PAST 


RELICS   OF   THE   PAST 


MY  DEAR  COLETTE, — I  do  not  know 
whether  you  remember  the  verse  of 
Sainte-Beuve  we  once  read  together  and 
which  has  remained  buried  in  my  memory, 
because  this  line  says  so  many  things  to 
me  and  has  frequently  comforted  my  poor 
heart,  especially  these  latter  days.  Here 
it  is: 

"To  be  born,  to  live,  and  to  die  in  the 
same  house." 

I  am  now  quite  alone  in  this  house 
where  I  was  born,  where  I  have  lived,  and 
where  I  hope  to  die.  It  is  not  gay  every 
day,  but  it  is  tranquil,  because  here  I  am 
enveloped  in  souvenirs. 

My  son   Henry  is  an  advocate;  he 


110  THE  SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

comes  to  see  me  for  two  months  during 
the  year.  Jeanne  is  living  with  her  hus- 
band at  the  other  end  of  France,  and  it 
is  I  who  go  to  see  her  every  autumn.  So 
I  am  here  alone,  quite  alone,  but  sur- 
rounded by  familiar  objects  that  cease- 
lessly speak;  to  me  of  my  own,  of  the 
dead,  and  of  the  distant  living. 

I  no  longer  read  much — I  am  old — 
but  I  muse  without  end,  or,  rather,  I 
dream.  Oh,  I  do  not  dream  after  my 
fashion  of  other  days.  You  remember 
our  crazy  fancies — the  adventures  con- 
trived in  our  reveries  at  twenty,  and 
all  the  horizons  of  happiness  but  dimly 
perceived. 

None  of  this  has  been  realized.  At 
least,  the  other  thing  has  happened;  less 
charming,  less  poetic,  but  sufficient  for 
those  who  know  how  to  bravely  take  a 
stand  in  life. 

Do  you  know  why  we  women  are  so 
often  unhappy?  It  is  because  we  are 
taught  in  our  youth  to  believe  too  much 
in  happiness.  We  are  never  brought  up 
with  the  idea  of  fighting,  of  struggling,  or 


RELICS   OF  THE  PAST  III 

of  suffering.  And  at  the  first  blow  our 
heart  breaks.  With  an  expectant  soul 
we  await  a  flood  of  happy  events.  They 
come  only  fairly  good,  and  we  begin  to 
sob  at  once.  Happiness,  the  real  happi- 
ness of  our  dreams,  I  have  learned  to 
know.  It  does  not  consist  in  great  felicity, 
because  great  felicity  is  very  rare  and 
very  short,  but  it  resides  simply  in  the 
indefinite  expectation  of  a  series  of  joyous 
events  that  never  come. 

Happiness  is  joyous  expectation;  it  is 
the  horizon  of  hopes;  it  is,  therefore,  the 
illusion  without  end.  Yes,  my  dear,  it  is 
only  the  illusions  that  are  good,  and,  old 
as  I  am,  I  have  them  every  day;  only, 
their  object  has  changed,  my  desires  hav- 
ing ceased  to  be  the  same. 

So  I  told  you  that  I  pass  the  best  part 
of  my  time  in  dreaming.  What  else 
should  I  do?  I  have  two  ways  of  doing 
this,  and  I  give  them  to  you,  for  they 
may  be  of  service. 

Oh,  the  first  is  very  simple.  It  con- 
sists in  sitting  before  my  fire  in  a  low  arm- 
chair that  is  gentle  to  my  old  bones,  and 


112  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

to  turn  back  to  things  which  have  been 
left  behind. 

How  short  life  is!  Especially  that 
which  is  lived  entirely  in  the  same  place: 

"To  be  born,  to  live,  and  to  die  in  the 
same  house." 

When  one  is  old  recollections  are 
massed  and  crowded  together,  and  it 
seems  sometimes  that  barely  ten  days 
ago  one  was  young.  Yes,  everything  has 
slipped  by  as  if  it  were  merely  a  matter  of 
a  day:  morning,  noon  .  .  .  night;  and  the 
night  comes — the  night  without  a  dawn. 

In  gazing  into  the  fire  for  hours  and 
hours  the  past  is  born  again  as  if  it  were 
yesterday.  One  knows  no  longer  where 
one  is;  the  dream  carries  one  away  and 
one  crosses  again  one's  entire  existence. 

And  so  many  gusts  from  other  days 
return  to  me — the  sensations  of  youth  and 
even  its  glow,  the  throbbing  of  the  heart 
and  all  that  raciness  of  eighteen  years — 
that  I  have  the  illusion  of  being  a  little 
girl  and,  distinct  as  new  realities,  I  see 
visions  of  forgotten  things. 

Oh,  how  overwhelming  are  the  memo- 


RELICS   OF  THE  PAST  1 13 

ries  of  my  outings  when  a  little  girl !  Here 
in  my  arm-chair,  at  the  corner  of  my  fire, 
there  came  to  me  so  strangely  the  other 
evening  the  recollection  of  a  sunset  at 
Mont  Saint-Michel,  and,  swiftly  follow- 
ing, the  vision  of  a  hunt  in  the  forest  of 
Uville:  the  smell  of  wet  sand,  leaves 
heavy  with  dew,  the  heat  of  the  great 
disk  of  the  sun  dipping  into  the  sea,  then 
the  mild  warmth  of  its  first  rays  while  I 
galloped  through  the  underbrush. 

And  everything  I  then  felt:  my  poetic 
exaltation  at  the  infinite  distances  of  the 
sea,  my  happy  enjoyment  as  the  branches 
grazed  me  —  even  my  slightest  little 
thoughts  —  everything  —  even  the  little 
ends  of  dreams,  of  desire  and  of  sentiment 
— everything — everything  returned  to  me 
as  if  I  were  there  yet ;  as  if  fifty  years  had 
not  since  elapsed  that  have  chilled  my 
blood  and  quite  altered  my  expectations. 

But  the  other  method  of  reviving  the 
past  is  by  far  the  better. 

You  know,  or  you  do  not  know,  my  dear 
Colette,  that  we  destroy  nothing  in  the 
house.  Up  beneath  the  roof  we  have  a 


114  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

large  storeroom  which  we  call  "the  room 
for  old  things." 

Everything  that  has  outlived  its  use- 
fulness is  thrown  there.  I  often  go  up 
there  to  look  about  me,  and  find  a  heap 
of  odds  and  ends  I  had  ceased  to  think 
of  and  which  remind  me  of  a  host  of 
things. 

These  are  not  the  good,  homely  furni- 
ture we  have  known  from  infancy,  recall- 
ing to  us  the  eventful  dates,  the  joys  and 
sorrows  of  our  past,  and  which  from 
mingling  with  our  lives  have  attained 
a  kind  of  personality,  a  physiognomy. 
These  companions  of  our  glad  and  somber 
moments  are  the  only  ones,  alas!  that 
we  are  sure  of  never  losing — the  only  ones 
who  will  not  die  like  the  others,  whose 
loving  eyes,  whose  lips  and  voices,  have 
disappeared  forever.  But  in  ransacking 
the  old,  worn  bric-a-brac  I  find  again 
those  old  insignificant  objects  that  have 
dragged  along  beside  us  unnoticed  for 
forty  years  and  when  suddenly  seen  again 
assume  the  importance  and  the  signifi- 
cance of  old  witnesses. 


RELICS  OF  THE  PAST  11$ 

To  me  they  seem  like  people  one  has 
known  indefinitely,  but  without  penetrat- 
ing their  reserve  until  some  evening,  sud- 
denly, and  for  no  reason,  they  begin  to 
chatter  endlessly,  letting  one  into  all  the 
intimacy  of  their  inner  life  and  revealing 
things  one  had  never  suspected. 

And  I  go  from  one  to  the  other  with  a 
slight  throbbing  of  the  heart.  And  Mem- 
ory whispers,  "I  broke  that  the  even- 
ing Paul  left  for  Lyons,"  or,  "  Ah,  here  is 
mother's  little  lantern,  the  one  she  went 
to  the  benediction  with  on  winter  even- 
ings." 

There  are  even  things  that  say  nothing 
and  belonged  to  my  grandparents;  there- 
fore no  person  living  to-day  has  known 
either  them  or  their  history  and  adven- 
tures; even  their  owners  are  forgotten. 
Nobody  has  seen  the  hands  that  touched 
them  nor  the  eyes  that  looked  at  them. 
These  are  the  ones  that  make  me  dream 
for  a  long  time.  To  me  they  represent 
the  abandoned  of  whom  the  last  friends 
are  dead. 

You,  my  dear  Colette,  are  not  likely  to 


Il6  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

understand  all  this,  and  you  will  smile  at 
my  foolishness  and  my  childish  and  sen- 
timental hobbies.  You  are  a  Parisian, 
and  you  Parisians  do  not  know  this  in- 
ward life — these  rigmaroles  of  one's  own 
heart.  You  live  on  the  outside,  with 
your  thoughts  in  the  breezes.  Living 
alone,  I  can  only  talk  to  you  of  myself. 
In  answering,  talk  to  me  about  yourself, 
that  I  may  be  able  to  put  myself  in  your 
place  as  you  will  be  able  to  put  yourself 
in  mine  to-morrow. 

But  you  will  never  completely  under- 
stand the  line  of  Sainte-Beuve: 

"To  be  born,  to  live,  and  to  die  in  the 
same  house." 

A  thousand  kisses,  my  old  friend. 

ADELAIDE. 


VIII- 

A    QUESTION    OF 
DIPLOMACY 


A   QUESTION   OF 
DIPLOMACY 


NEWS  of  the  disaster  of  Sedan  had  just 
reached  Paris.  The  Republic  had  been 
proclaimed  and  the  entire  country  gasped 
at  the  beginning  of  the  madness  which 
lasted  until  after  the  Commune.  From 
one  end  of  the  land  to  the  other,  men 
played  at  being  soldiers. 

Hat-makers  were  colonels  with  the  func- 
tions of  generals;  revolvers  and  knives 
were  displayed  about  pacific  bellies  en- 
veloped with  red  sashes;  little  bourgeois, 
who  had  become  warriors  by  accident, 
commanded  battalions  of  bawling  volun- 
teers and  swore  like  truck-drivers  to  give 
themselves  a  commanding  presence. 


120  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

The  mere  fact  of  holding  arms,  of 
handling  automatic  rifles,  distracted  these 
people  who  had  hitherto  handled  only 
scales,  and  made  them,  without  reason, 
redoubtable  to  the  first  comer.  The  in- 
nocent were  executed  to  prove  that  they 
knew  how  to  kill;  and  in  prowling  about 
the  country  still  undefiled  by  the  Prus- 
sians they  shot  the  stray  dogs,  the  cows 
ruminating  in  peace,  and  sick  horses  graz- 
ing in  the  meadows. 

Everybody  considered  himself  called 
upon  to  play  a  great  military  r61e.  The 
cafes  of  the  smallest  villages,  with  their 
horde  of  shopkeepers  in  uniform,  resem- 
bled barracks  or  ambulances. 

The  borough  of  Caneville  still  ignored 
the  distracting  news  of  the  army  from  the 
capital;  but  for  a  month  an  extreme  agi- 
tation was  shaking  it — the  rival  factions 
stood  face  to  face. 

The  mayor,  the  Viscount  de  Varnetot, 
a  small,  thin,  little  man,  already  old,  and 
a  legitimist  who  for  ambitious  motives 
had  but  recently  rallied  to  the  Empire, 
saw  a  determined  adversary  in  the  per- 


A   QUESTION   OF  DIPLOMACY  121 

son  of  Dr.  Massarel,  a  fat,  florid  man, 
chief  of  the  Republican  party  of  the  dis- 
trict, an  elder  in  the  headquarters  of  the 
Masonic  lodge,  president  of  the  Society 
of  Agriculture,  and  organizer  of  the  rural 
militia,  which  was  to  save  the  country. 

In  fifteen  days  he  had  found  the  means 
of  persuading  sixty-three  married  men — 
fathers  of  families — to  defend  the  coun- 
try; these  were  prudent  peasants  and 
tradesmen  of  the  borough,  and  he  drilled 
them  every  morning  in  the  square  of  the 
town-hall. 

When  the  mayor  by  chance  came  to  the 
parish  building,  the  commandant  Mas- 
sarel, loaded  with  pistols,  passed  proudly 
before  his  troops,  saber  in  hand,  and 
made  his  people  shout,  "Vive  la  patrie!" 

And  it  was  noticed  that  this  cry  agi- 
tated the  little  viscount,  who  doubtless 
saw  in  this  a  threat,  a  challenge,  and  at 
the  same  time  an  odious  reminder  of  the 
great  Revolution. 

On  the  morning  of  December  5th,  as 
the  postman  brought  the  paper,  the  doc- 
tor, in  uniform,  his  revolver  on  the  table, 


122  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

was  engaged  in  consultation  with  a  couple 
of  old  farmers,  one  of  whom  had  been 
afflicted  with  varicose  veins  for  seven 
years,  but  had  waited  till  his  wife  also 
had  them  before  consulting  a  doctor. 

Monsieur  Massarel  opened  the  news- 
paper, turned  pale,  rose  suddenly,  and, 
raising  his  arms  to  heaven  with  an  ex- 
alted gesture,  began  to  bawl  at  the  top 
of  his  voice  before  the  two  frightened 
rustics : 

"Long  live  the  Republic!  Long  live 
the  Republic!  Long  live  the  Republic!" 

Then  he  fell  back  into  an  arm-chair, 
faint  with  emotion. 

And  as  the  peasant  continued,  "It  be- 
gan just  like  ants  crawling  up  and  down 
my  legs,"  the  doctor  broke  in  with: 
"Shut  up!  As  if  I  had  time  to  attend  to 
your  drivel!  The  Republic  has  been  pro- 
claimed; the  Emperor  is  a  prisoner; 
France  is  saved.  Long  live  the  Repub- 
lic!" And,  running  to  the  door,  he  cried: 
"Celeste,  quick!  Celeste!" 

The  terror-stricken  servant  ran  up;  he 
talked  so  rapidly  that  he  sputtered: 


A  QUESTION   OF  DIPLOMACY  123 

"My  boots,  my  saber,  my  cartridge- 
pouch,  and  the  Spanish  dagger  that  is  on 
the  table  at  my  bedside.  Hurry!" 

And  as  the  obstinate  peasant,  taking 
advantage  of  an  instant  of  silence,  again 
took  up  the  thread  of  his  narrative,  "It 
became  like  little  pockets  that  hurt  me 
as  I  walked,"  the  exasperated  doctor 
screamed:  "Good  God!  will  you  shut 
up!  If  you  had  washed  your  feet  this 
wouldn't  have  happened!" 

Then,  seizing  him  by  the  collar,  he 
shouted  in  his  face,  "You  glorified  ass, 
don't  you  realize  that  we're  in  a  Re- 
public?" 

But  professional  sentiment  calmed  him 
at  once  and  he  pushed  the  astounded 
couple  outside,  repeating:  "Come  back 
to-morrow;  come  back  to-morrow,  my 
friends.  I  haven't  the  time  to-day." 

Even  while  he  equipped  himself  from 
head  to  foot  he  again  gave  a  series  of 
orders  to  his  servant: 

"Run  to  Lieutenant  Picart  and  to  Sub- 
Lieutenant  Pommel  and  tell  them  I  ex- 
pect them  here  immediately.  Send  me 


124  THE  SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

Torchebeuf,  too,  with  his  drum,  quick! 
Quick!" 

And  when  Celeste  had  left  he  pulled 
himself  together  preparatory  to  sur- 
mounting the  difficulties  of  the  situation. 

The  three  men  arrived  together,  in 
working-clothes.  The  commandant,  who 
had  expected  to  see  them  in  uniform,  re- 
ceived a  shock. 

' '  The  devil !  Then  you  know  nothing  ? 
The  Emperor  is  a  prisoner;  the  Repub- 
lic has  been  proclaimed.  We  must  act. 
My  position  is  delicate,  I  may  even  say 
perilous."  He  mused  for  a  few  seconds 
before  the  astonished  faces  of  his  sub- 
ordinates, and  continued:  "We  must  act 
and  not  hesitate.  In  similar  instances 
minutes  are  worth  hours.  Everything 
depends  upon  the  promptness  of  deci- 
sions. You,  Picart,  go  and  find  the  priest 
and  order  him  to  ring  the  alarm-bell  to 
assemble  the  population,  whom  I  am  go- 
ing to  inform.  You,  Torchebeuf,  beat  the 
call  to  arms  in  the  entire  parish  as  far 
as  the  hamlets  of  Gersaie  and  Salmaire. 
You,  Pommel,  dress  promptly  in  your 


A  QUESTION  OF  DIPLOMACY  12$ 

uniform — nothing  but  the  tunic  and  the 
kepi.  We  will  occupy  the  town -hall 
together  and  summon  Monsieur  de  Var- 
netot  to  surrender  his  executive  power  to 
me.  Have  you  understood?" 

"Yes." 

"Execute  this  and  be  prompt.  I  shall 
accompany  you  as  far  as  your  house, 
Pommel,  as  we  are  operating  together." 

Five  minutes  later  the  commandant  and 
his  subordinates,  armed  to  the  teeth,  ap- 
peared on  the  square  just  at  the  moment 
when  the  little  Viscount  de  Varnetot, 
with  legs  gaitered  as  if  for  a  hunting- 
party,  his  shot-gun  on  his  shoulder, 
emerged  with  rapid  steps  from  another 
street,  followed  by  his  three  guards,  in 
green  tunics,  their  knives  at  the  hip  and 
their  rifles  slung  over  the  shoulder. 

As  the  doctor  stopped,  dumf  ounded,  the 
four  men  penetrated  into  the  town-hall, 
the  door  of  which  closed  after  them. 

"We  have  been  forestalled,"  muttered 
the  doctor.  "We  must  now  wait  for 
reinforcements.  There's  nothing  to  be 
done  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 


126          ,  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

Lieutenant  Picart  reappeared.  "The 
priest  has  refused  to  obey, ' '  he  said.  * '  He 
has  even  locked  himself  in  the  church 
with  the  beadle  and  the  Swiss." 

And  from  the  other  side  of  the  square, 
opposite  the  white  and  sealed  town-hall, 
the  church,  mute  and  gloomy,  showed  its 
great  door  of  oak,  fortified  with  iron 
mountings. 

Then,  as  the  perplexed  inhabitants  put 
their  noses  to  the  windows  or  appeared 
on  the  thresholds  of  the  houses,  the  drum 
suddenly  rolled  and  Torchebeuf  appeared, 
beating  with  fury  the  three  precipitated 
beats  of  the  call  to  arms.  He  crossed  the 
square  at  quick  march  and  then  disap- 
peared in  the  road  leading  tp,the  fields. 

The  commandant  drew  his  saber  and 
advanced  to  about  half  the  distance 
between  the  two  builclings  where  the 
enemy  had  barricaded  himself;  then, 
waving  his  weapon  above  his  head,  he 
bellowed  with  all  the  force  of  his  lungs: 
''Long  live  the  Republic!  Death  to  the 
traitors!"  Then  he  returned  to  his  offi- 
cers. 


A  QUESTION  OF  DIPLOMACY  127 

The  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the  drug- 
gist, uneasy,  hung  up  their  shutters  and 
closed  their  shops.  Only  the  grocer  re- 
mained open. 

Yet  little  by  little  the  men  of  the 
militia  arrived,  diversely  dressed  and  all 
capped  with  the  black  kepi  and  a  red 
stripe,  the  kepi  constituting  the  uniform  of 
the  corps.  They  were  armed,  with  old, 
rusty  guns,  those  old  guns  that  had  hung 
for  thirty  years  above  the  mantelpieces 
of  kitchens,  and  they  greatly  resembled 
a  detachment  of  rural  constables. 

When  he  had  about  thirty  around  him, 
the  commandant  in  a  few  words  put  them 
in  touch  with  events.  Then,  turning  to 
his  general  staff,  he  said,  "Now  let  us 
act." 

The  inhabitants  collected,  stared,  and 
gaped. 

The  doctor  had  soon  devised  a  plan  of 
action.  "Lieutenant  Picart,  you  will  ad- 
vance beneath  the  windows  of  the  town- 
hall  and  summon  Monsieur  de  Varnetot, 
in  the  name  of  the  Republic,  to  surrender 
the  town-hall  to  me." 


128  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

But  the  lieutenant,  a  master  mason,  re- 
fused. "You  certainly  are  a  foxy  one. 
To  have  me  get  plugged  with  a  bullet. 
Thanks.  You  know  those  fellows  in  there 
are  good  shots.  Run  your  own  errands." 

The  commandant  reddened.  "I  order 
you  to  go  in  the  name  of  discipline." 

The  lieutenant  openly  revolted. 
"You'll  order  me  oftener  than  I'll  go  to 
get  my  face  smashed  without  knowing 
why." 

The  notables,  assembled  in  a  neighbor- 
ing group,  began  to  laugh,  and  one  of 
them  cried:  "You're  right,  Picart.  This 
isn't  the  time  to  do  it." 

"Cowards!"  muttered  the  doctor,  and, 
leaving  his  saber  and  revolver  in  the  hands 
of  a  soldier,  he  advanced  at  a  slow  pace, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  windows,  expecting  to 
see  a  rifle  come  out  of  one  of  them,  aimed 
at  him.  When  he  was  only  a  few  steps 
from  the  building  the  doors  at  either  end, 
which  gave  access  to  the  two  schools, 
opened,  and  there  issued  a  troop  of  little 
urchins — boys  and  girls — who  began  to 
play  in  the  deserted  square  and  squabbled 


A  QUESTION  OF  DIPLOMACY  1 29 

like  a  flock  of  geese  about  the  doctor,  who 
could  not  make  himself  heard. 

As  soon  as  the  last  pupils  left,  the  doors 
closed.  The  main  body  of  the  youngsters 
at  last  dispersed,  and  the  commandant 
called  in  a  strong  voice: 

"Monsieur  de  Varnetot!" 

A  window  on  the  first  floor  opened. 
Monsieur  de  Varnetot  appeared. 

The  commandant  continued:  "Mon- 
sieur, you  know  that  great  events  have 
altered  the  aspect  of  the  government. 
That  which  you  represented  has  ceased 
to  be.  That  which  I  represent  has  come 
into  power.  Under  these  unhappy  but 
decisive  circumstances  I  have  come  to 
summon  you  in  the  name  of  the  Republic 
to  surrender  to  me  the  functions  you  were 
invested  with  by  the  preceding  powers." 

Monsieur  de  Varnetot  replied:  "Mon- 
sieur le  docteur,  I  am  mayor  of  Cane- 
ville,  elected  by  competent  authority,  and 
I  shall  remain  mayor  of  Caneville  as  long 
as  I  have  not  been  dismissed  or  replaced 
by  an  order  of  my  superiors.  As  mayor 
I  am  at  home  in  the  town-hall,  and  there 


130  THE   SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

I  remain.  Moreover,  try  to  make  me 
leave  it!"  And  he  closed  the  window. 

The  commandant  turned  to  his  troops. 
But  before  venturing  an  explanation  he 
eyed  Lieutenant  Picart  from  head  to  foot. 
"  You're  a  brave  fellow,  you  are.  A 
famous  milksop  —  the  disgrace  of  the 
army.  I  degrade  you  from  your  rank." 

"As  if  I  gave  a  damn,"  the  lieutenant 
answered;  and  he  went  away  to  mingle 
with  the  murmuring  group  of  inhabitants. 

The  doctor  hesitated.  What  was  he  to 
do?  Order  an  attack?  But  would  the 
men  charge?  Then,  again,  had  he  the 
authority?  An  idea  occurred  to  him. 
He  ran  to  the  telegraph-office,  which  faced 
the  town-hall  on  the  other  side  of  the 
square,  and  sent  off  three  despatches: 
to  the  lord-mayor  of  the  republican  gov- 
ernment at  Paris,  to  the  prefect  of  the 
Seine  Inferieure  at  Rouen,  to  the  new 
republican  sub-prefect  of  Dieppe. 

He  set  forth  the  situation;  dwelt  on  the 
danger  incurred  by  the  parish  remaining 
in  the  hands  of  a  former  monarchist 
mayor,  offered  his  devoted  services, 


A  QUESTION  OF  DIPLOMACY  131 

asked  for  orders,  and  signed  his  name, 
following  it  with  all  his  titles. 

Then,  taking  ten  francs  from  his 
pocket,  he  returned  to  his  army  corps. 
"Here,  my  friends,  go  and  eat  and  have  a 
drink,  and  leave  only  a  detachment  of  ten 
men  here  so  that  nobody  can  leave  the 
town-hall." 

But  ex-Lieutenant  Picart,  who  was 
speaking  with  the  watchmaker,  heard, 
and  began  to  chuckle: 

"By-gad!  if, they  leave,  that  '11  be  the 
chance  to  enter.  Unless  they  do  I  can't 
see  you  inside  there." 

The  doctor  did  not  answer,  and  went  to 
lunch.  In  the  afternoon  he  stationed 
pickets  around  the  entire  parish  as  if 
it  were  threatened  by  an  attack.  He 
passed  several  times  before  the  doors  of 
the  town-hall  and  the  church  without 
noticing  anything  suspicious.  One  might 
have  thought  these  buildings  empty. 

The  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the  drug- 
gist opened  their  shops. 

Newsmongers  prattled  in  the  lodging- 
houses.  If  the  Emperor  was  a  prisoner 


132  THE  SECOND  ODD   NUMBER 

there  was  treachery  somewhere.  They  did 
not  know  which  republic  had  returned. 

Night  fell.  Toward  nine  o'clock  the 
doctor  noiselessly  approached  the  en- 
trance of  the  district  building  alone,  per- 
suaded that  his  adversary  had  left  to  go 
to  bed,  and  as  he  was  preparing  to  break 
in  the  door  with  a  pickax  a  loud  voice,  the 
voice  of  a  guard,  suddenly  demanded: 

"Who's  there?"   • 

And  Monsieur  Massarel  beat  a  retreat 
as  fast  as  his  legs  would  carry  him. 

Daybreak  found  the  situation  unal- 
tered. The  militia  in  arms  occupied  the 
square.  All  the  inhabitants  had  united 
about  these  troops,  awaiting  a  solution, 
and  from  neighboring  villages  others  be- 
gan to  arrive  to  see  the  sights. 

The  doctor,  realizing  that  his  reputa- 
tion was  at  stake,  resolved  to  finish 
things  in  one  way  or  another;  and  he  was 
about  to  come  to  some  kind  of  a  resolu- 
tion— an  energetic  one,  assuredly — when 
the  door  of  the  telegraph-office  opened 
and  the  little  servant  of  the  directress 
appeared,  holding  two  papers  in  her  hand. 


A  QUESTION  OF  DIPLOMACY  133 

At  first  she  made  for  the  commandant 
and  handed  him  one  of  the  despatches; 
then,  crossing  the  deserted  middle  of  the 
square,  intimidated  by  all  the  eyes  fixed 
on  her,  she  went  with  mincing  steps  and 
bowed  head  to  rap  lightly  on  the  barri- 
caded door  of  the  town-hall,  as  if  she  were 
ignorant  that  an  armed  faction  was  hid- 
ing there. 

The  door  opened;  the  hand  of  a  man 
received  the  message,  and  the  young  girl 
returned,  all  flushed  and  ready  to  cry 
for  having  been  stared  at  by  the  entire 
country. 

The  doctor  in  a  vibrating  voice  de- 
manded, "A  little  silence  if  you  please!" 
And  when  the  populace  had  become 
silent  he  proudly  began:  "Here  is  the 
communication  I  have  received  from  the 
government."  And  lifting  his  voice  he 
read: 

'"The  mayor  is  dismissed.  Kindly 
advise  at  earliest  possible  moment.  Will 
receive  later  instructions. 

"'For  the  sub-prefect, 

'"SAPIN,  Councilor.'" 


134  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

He  had  triumphed.  His  heart  beat 
with  joy;  "his  hands  trembled;  but  Pi- 
cart,  his  former  subordinate,  called  to 
him  from  a  neighboring  group:  • 

"That  is  all  very  well  so  far,  but  the 
others  haven't  left,  and  your  paper  makes 
you  look  funny." 

Monsieur  Massarel  turned  pale.  If 
the  others  did  not  leave  it  was  certain 
that  he  would  have  to  advance.  It  was 
not  only  his  right,  but  his  duty.  And  he 
looked  anxiously  to  the  town-hall,  hoping 
to  see  the  door  open  and  his  adversary 
withdraw. 

The  door  remained  closed.  What 
should  he  do?  The  crowd  increased  and 
closed  in  about  the  militia.  They  began 
to  laugh. 

One  thought,  above  all,  tortured  the 
doctor.  If  he  ordered  an  attack  it  would 
be  necessary  to  march  at  the  head  of  his 
men;  and  as  with  his  death  all  con- 
troversy would  cease,  it  would  be  at  him 
that  Monsieur  de  Varnetot  and  his  three 
guards  would  shoot.  And  they  were  good 
shots,  very  good  —  Picart  had  just  re- 


A   QUESTION    OF   DIPLOMACY  135 

peated  this  to  him.  He  turned  to  Pom- 
mel, for  an  idea  had  illuminated  him: 

"Go  quick  and  ask  the  druggist  to  lend 
me  a  napkin  and  a  stick." 

The  lieutenant  hurried.  < 

He  was  going  to  make  a  flag  of  truce — 
a  white  flag,  the  sight  of  which  might 
gladden  the  former  mayor. 

Pommel  returned  with  the  requested 
linen  and  a  broom-handle.  With  pieces 
of  string  this  standard  was  devised,  which 
Monsieur  Massarel  seized  with  both 
hands  and  again  advanced  toward  the 
town-hall,  holding  it  before  him. 

When  he  was  opposite  the  door  he 
again  called,  "Monsieur  de  Varnetot." 

The  door  suddenly  opened  and  Mon- 
sieur de  Varnetot  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
old with  his  three  guards. 

The  doctor  recoiled  with  an  instinctive 
movement;  then,  saluting  his  enemy  with 
courtesy,  and  strangled  by  emotion,  he 
began:  "I  come,  monsieur,  to  communi- 
cate to  you  the  instructions  I  have  re- 
ceived." 

The  viscount,  without  returning  his 

IO 


136  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

salute,  replied,  "I  withdraw,  monsieur, 
but  rest  assured  that  it  is  neither  from 
fear  nor  from  obedience  to  the  odious 
government  which  has  usurped  power." 
And,  emphasizing  each  word,  he  de- 
clared: "I  do  not  wish  to  appear  to  be 
serving  the  Republic  for  a  single  day. 
That  is  all.1' 

Massarel,  speechless,  did  not  reply,  and 
Monsieur  de  Varnetot,  dropping  into  a 
brisk  pace,  disappeared  in  a  corner  of  the 
square,  still  followed  by  his  escort. 

Then  the  doctor,  bewildered  with 
pride,  returned  toward  the  crowd.  As 
soon  as  he  was  near  enough  to  make  him- 
self heard 'he  cried:  "Hurrah!  Hurrah! 
The  Republic  triumphs  all  along  the 
line!" 

No  emotion  was  manifested. 

The  doctor  continued:  "The  people 
are  free;  you  are  free,  independent.  Be 
proud!" 

The  inert  villagers  stared  at  him  with- 
out a  glimmer  of  pride  in  their  eyes. 

It  was  his  turn  to  survey  them,  dis- 
gusted at  their  indifference,  and  to  search 


A   QUESTION   OF  DIPLOMACY  137 

for  something  he  might  say  which  would 
be  the  means  of  striking  a  great  blow,  of 
electrifying  the  pacific  country  and  of 
fulfilling  his  mission  of  the  initiator. 

But  an  inspiration  came  to  him,  and, 
turning  to  Pommel,  he  said,  "  Lieutenant, 
go  and  find  the  bust  of  the  ex-Emperor 
which  is  in  the  debating-room  of  the 
Municipal  Council,  and  bring  it  to  me 
with  a  chair." 

The  man  soon  reappeared,  carrying  on 
his  right  shoulder  a  Bonaparte  of  plaster 
and  holding  in  his  left  hand  a  straw- 
bottomed  chair. 

Monsieur  Massarel  went  forward  to 
meet  him,  took  the  chair,  put  it  on  the 
ground,  placed  the  bust  upon  it,  and,  re- 
treating for  a  few  paces,  addressed  it  in  a 
sonorous  voice: 

' '  Tyrant !  tyrant !  Here  you  are  fallen 
— fallen  in  the  dirt — fallen  in  the  mire! 
The  expiring  fatherland  gasped  under 
your  heel !  Avenging  Destiny  has  struck 
you!  Defeat  and  shame  cling  to  you! 
You  fall  vanquished,  a  prisoner  of  the 
Prussians,  and  on  the  ruins  of  your 


138  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

crumbling  empire  the  young  and  radiant 
Republic,  taking  up  your  broken  sword, 
rises  .  .  ." 

He  awaited  the  applause.  Not  a  cry, 
no  clapping  of  hands  burst  forth.  The 
bewildered  peasants  were  silent,  and  the 
bust  with  the  mustache  extending  past 
the  cheeks  on  either  side,  the  immovable 
bust,  well-groomed  like  a  hairdresser's 
sign,  seemed  to  look  at  Monsieur  Mas- 
sarel  with  its  smile  of  plaster — an  inef- 
faceable and  mocking  smile. 

Thus  they  stood  face  to  face — Napo- 
leon on  his  chair  and  the  doctor  stand- 
ing at  three  paces  from  him.  The  com- 
mandant was  seized  with  anger.  What 
was  he  to  do  to  move  these  stolid  peo- 
ple and  to  definitely  win  this  victory  of 
opinion? 

His  hand,  by  chance,  wandered  to  his 
stomach  and  encountered  the  butt  of  his 
revolver.  Words  of  inspiration  came  to 
him  no  more.  He  drew  his  weapon,  took 
two  steps,  and,  point-blank,  fired  at  the 
deposed  monarch. 

The  ball  drilled  a  small,  black  hole  in 


A   QUESTION  OF   DIPLOMACY  139 

the  forehead  like  a  spot — hardly  any- 
thing. He  had  missed  his  effect.  Mon- 
sieur Massarel  took  a  second  shot,  which 
made  a  second  hole,  then  a  third,  and, 
without  stopping,  he  let  go  the  rest. 

The  forehead  of  Napoleon  flew  into 
white  dust,  but  the  eyes,  the  nose,  and 
the  fine  points  of  the  mustache  remained 
intact. 

In  exasperation  the  doctor  overturned 
the  chair  with  a  punch,  and,  placing  his 
foot  on  the  remains  of  the  bust  in  the 
posture  of  a  conqueror,  he  turned  to  the 
astounded  public.  "Let  all  traitors  per- 
ish thus!"  But  as  no  enthusiasm  had 
yet  manifested  itself,  and  as  the  spectators 
seemed  to  be  stupid  with  astonishment, 
the  commandant  called  to  the  men  of  the 
militia,  "You  may  now  return  to  your 
homes."  And  he  himself  made  for  his 
own  home  as  if  pursued. 

His  servant,  as  soon  as  he  appeared, 
told  him  that  some  patients  had  been 
waiting  for  more  than  three  hours  in  his 
office,  and  he  hurried  in. 

They  were  the  two  peasants  with  the 


140  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

varicose  veins,  who  had  returned  just 
after  dawn,  obstinate  and  patient. 

And  the  old  man  at  once  began  his 
explanation:  "It  began  just  like  ants 
crawling  up  and  down  my  legs.  ..." 


IX 
MADEMOISELLE     PERLE 


MADEMOISELLE     PERLE 


WHAT  a  curious  notion  it  was  of  mine' 
that  evening  to  choose  Mademoiselle 
Perle  as  Queen. 

Every  year  I  celebrate  Twelfth-night 
with  my  old  friend  Chantal.  My  father, 
whose  oldest  friend  he  was,  used  to  take 
me  to  his  house  when  I  was  a  child.  I 
have  continued  to  go,  and  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  go  there,  doubtless,  as  long  as  I 
live  and  as  long  as  there  is  a  Chantal  in 
this  world. 

The  Chantals,  by  the  way,  lead  a 
strange  existence.  They  live  in  Paris 
just  as  they  might  live  in  Grasse,  Yvetot, 
or  Pont-a-Mousson.  They  have  a  small 
house  in  a  little  garden  near  the  Observa- 
tory. Their  home  life  there  is  what  it 


144  THE  SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

might  be  in  the  country.  Of  Paris,  of  the 
real  Paris,  they  know  nothing ;  they  have 
no  conception  of  it ;  they  are  so  far  away, 
so  far!  Sometimes,  however,  they  take 
a  journey,  a  long  journey.  Madame 
Chantal  goes  off  ''provisioning,"  as  they 
say  in  the  family.  This  is  how  she  does 
it. 

Mademoiselle  Perle,  who  has  the  keys 
of  the  kitchen  storerooms  (for  the  linen- 
closets  are  administered  by  the  mistress 
herself),  announces  that  the  sugar  is 
about  out,  that  the  tinned  goods  are 
used  up,  that  there  is  nothing  left  to 
speak  of  in  the  bottom  of  the  coffee-bag. 
Thus  warned  against  famine,  Madame 
Chantal  makes  an  inspection  of  the  rest 
of  the  stores,  taking  notes  in  a  note- 
book. Then,  when  she  has  written  down 
a  lot  of  figures;  she  gives  herself  up  to 
long  calculations  and  then  to  long  dis- 
cussions with  Mademoiselle  Perle.  How- 
ever, the  two  end  by  agreeing  and  by  fix- 
ing the  quantities  of  each  thing  which  will 
be  needed  to  provision  them  for  three 
months — sugar,  rice,  prunes,  coffee,  jams, 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  145 

cans  of  peas,  beans,  lobster,  fish,  salted  or 
dried,  etc. 

After  this  the  day  for  the  purchases  is 
decided  upon  and  they  go  off  in  a  cab 
with  a  railing  on  top  to  a  large  grocer's 
shop  on  the  other  side  of  the  bridge,  in  the 
new  quarter.  Madame  Chantal  and 
Mademoiselle  Perle  take  this  journey 
together,  mysteriously,  and  return  at 
dinner-time,  worn  out,  but  still  enthu- 
siastic, having  been  jolted  about  in  the 
cab  whose  top  is  covered  with  packages 
and  bags  like  a  moving- van. 

To  the  Chantals  all  that  portion  of 
Paris  situated  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Seine  constitutes  the  new  quarter,  a 
quarter  inhabited  by  a  curious  populace, 
noisy,  and  of  disputable  honesty,  that 
passes  its  days  in  dissipation  and  its 
nights  in  revels,  and  that  throws  its 
money  out  of  the  windows.  Every  now 
and  then,  though,  they  take  their  young 
daughters  to  the  theater,  to  the  Opera 
Comique,  or  to  the  Frangais,  when  the 
play  has  been  recommended  by  the  news- 
paper which  Monsieur  Chantal  reads. 


146  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

i 

The  young  ladies  are  to-day  seventeen 
and  eighteen  years  old;  they  are  two 
handsome  girls,  large  and  fresh,  very  well 
brought  up,  too  well  brought  up,  so  well 
brought  up  that  they  pass  unnoticed, 
like  two  pretty  dolls.  The  idea  would 
never  have  occurred  to  me  to  pay  atten- 
tion or  to  pay  court  to  either  of  the 
Chantal' young  ladies;  one  scarcely  dares 
to  speak  to  them,  so  immaculate  are  they ; 
one  is  almost  afraid  of  doing  the  wrong 
thing  when  one  bows  to  them. 

As  for  the  father,  he  is  a  charming  man, 
very  well  informed,  very  frank,  very 
cordial,  but  he  loves,  above  everything 
else,  repose,  quiet,  and  tranquillity,  and 
he  has  contributed  largely  to  the  mummi- 
fying of  his  family,  so  that  they  live  ac-  y 
cording  to  his  liking  in  a  state  of  [stagnant 
immobility.  He  reads  a  great"  deal,  is 
fond  of  talking,  and  is  easily  moved. 
The  lack  of  contact,  of  elbowing,  of  any 
shock,  has  rendered  his  skin  very  sensi- 
tive— his  moral  epidermis.  The  slightest 
thing  upsets  him,  excites  him,  and  makes 
him  suffer. 


MADEMOISELLE   PERLE  147 

Yet  the  Chantals  have  acquaintances, 
but  very  restricted  and  chosen  with  care 
in  their  neighborhood.  They  exchange 
two  or  three  visits  a  year  with  relations 
who  live  at  a  distance. 

I,  for  my  part,  go  to  dine  with  them 
every  i5th  of  August  and  every  Twelfth- 
night.  That  is  one  of  my  obligations,  as 
the  Easter  Communion  is  for  Catholics. 

On  the  1 5th  of  August  some  other 
friends  are  asked,  but  at  Twelfth-night  I 
am  the  only  guest. 

So,  then,  this  year,  as  in  all  other  years, 
I  went  to  dine  with  the  Chantals  to  cele- 
brate Epiphany. 

According  to  the  usual  custom,  I  em- 
braced Monsieur  Chantal,  Madame  Chan- 
tal,  and  Mademoiselle  Pearle  and  I  made 
a  low  bow  to  Mademoiselles  Louise  and 
Pauline.  I  was  questioned  about  a  thou- 
sand different  things — about  the  events 
of  the  town,  about  politics,  what  people 
were  thinking  about  Tonkin  and  about 
our  representatives.  Madame  Chantal, 
a  fat  woman,  whose  ideas  always  make 


148  THE   SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

me  feel  as  if  they  were  square  blocks  of 
stone,  was  in  the  habit  of  enunciating  this 
phrase  as  a  conclusion  to  every  political 
discussion,  "All  that's  a  bad  lookout  for 
the  future."  Why  have  I  always  imag- 
ined Madame  Chantal's  ideas  as  square? 
I  don't  know,  but  everything  she  says 
takes  that  form  in  my  mind — a  square,  a 
large  square  with  four  symmetrical  angles. 
There  are  some  persons  whose  ideas 
always  seem  to  me  round  and  rolling,  like 
hoops.  Just  as  soon  as  they  begin  a 
phrase  on  any  subject  things  begin  to 
roll,  to  advance,  to  come  along  in  ten, 
twenty,  fifty  round  ideas,  big  and  little, 
that  I  see  running  after  one  another  till 
they  arrive  at  the  horizon.  Other  per- 
sons, too,  have  pointed  ideas. . . .  Enough ! 
That's  of  little  importance. 

We  sat  down  to  table  just  as  we  always 
did,  and  the  dinner  came  to  an  end  with- 
out any  one's  having  said  anything  worth 
recalling.  With  dessert  they  brought  in 
the  Cake  of  the  Kings.  Now  every  year 
Monsieur  Chantal  was  King.  I  don't 
pretend  to  know  whether  it  was  always  by 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  149 

chance  or  by  means  of  a  family  agreement, 
but  he  never  failed  to  find  the  bean  in  the 
cake  and  he  always  proclaimed  Madame 
Chantal  Queen.  So  I  was  astounded 
when  in  a  mouthful  of  cake  I  felt  some- 
thing hard  that  came  near  breaking  my 
tooth.  I  quietly  removed  this  object 
from  my  mouth  and  discovered  that  it  was 
a  tiny  china  doll,  no  larger  than  a  bean. 
In  my  surprise  I  said,  "Ah!"  They  all 
looked  at  me,  and  Chantal,  clapping  his 
hands,  cried  out: 

"It's  Gaston !  It's  Gaston !  Long  live 
the  King!  Long  live  the  King!" 

Everybody  took  up  the  chorus,  "Long 
live  the  King!"  and  I  blushed  up  to  my 
ears  as  one  often  blushes  without  cause 
when  caught  in  rather  a  foolish  situation. 
I  kept  my  eyes  on  my  plate,  holding  the 
bit  of  china  between  my  two  fingers, 
trying  to  laugh,  and  not  knowing  what  to 
do  or  say,  when  Chantal  cried  again: 

"Now  thou  must  choose  the  Queen." 

That  bowled  me  over.  In  one  second 
a  thousand  thoughts,  a  thousand  suppo- 
sitions flashed  through  my  mind.  Did 


ISO  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

they  want  to  make  me  choose  one  of  the 
Chantal  young  ladies  ?  Was  this  a  means 
to  make  me  say  which  I  preferred? 
Was  it  a  gentle,  unconscious  impulsion 
toward  a  possible  marriage?  The  thought 
of  marriage  is  always  prowling  about 
every  house  where  there  are  grown  daugh- 
ters and  takes  every  form,  every  disguise, 
every  method.  I  experienced  a  horrible 
fear  of  compromising  myself,  and  also  an 
extreme  timidity  in  the  face  of  the  cor- 
rect and  stiff  behavior  of  Mademoiselle 
Louise  and  Mademoiselle  Pauline.  To 
choose  one  of  them  to  the  detriment  of 
the  other  would  seem  to  me  as  difficult 
as  to  choose  between  two  drops  of  water; 
and  then  I  was  greatly  troubled  by  the 
fear  of  taking  the  first  step  in  an  affair 
into  which  I  should  be  led,  despite  my- 
self, by  a  gentle  process  as  discreet  and  as 
imperceptible  as  that  which  had  brought 
me  to  this  insignificant  royalty. 

-But  all  at  once  I  had  an  inspiration  and 
I  held  out  to  Mademoiselle  Perle  the 
symbolic  doll.  At  first  every  one  was 
surprised,  then  doubtless  they  appreciated 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  151 

my  delicacy  and  my  discretion,  for  they 
applauded  furiously,  crying  out:  "Long 
live  the  Queen !  Long  live  the  Queen !" 

She,  poor  old  maid,  was  quite  out  of 
countenance;  she  trembled,  looked  fright- 
ened, and  stammered: 

"No,  no.  .  .  .  No,  no.  .  .  .  Not  me.  .  .  . 
I  beg  you. .  .  .  Not  me.  ...  I  beg  you." 

Then  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
looked  at  Mademoiselle  Perle  and  I  asked 
myself  what  she  might  be.  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  see  her  in  this  house,  just 
as  one  sees  old  tapestried  chairs  one  has 
been  accustomed  to  sitting  on  ever  since 
one's  childhood  without  taking  any  no- 
tice of  them.  One  day,  you  don't  know 
why,  because  a  sunbeam  falls  on  the  seat, 
you  suddenly  exclaim,  "Well,  but  this 
piece  of  furniture  is  very  interesting!" 
and  you  discover  that  the  wood  was 
wrought  by  an  artist  and  that  the  stuff 
is  remarkable.  I  had  never  taken  notice 
of  Mademoiselle  Perle. 

She  was  a  part  of  the  Chantal  family, 
that  was  all.  But  in  what  way?  By 

what  claim  ?   She  was  a  large,  thin  woman 
ii 


152  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

who  tried  to  remain  unnoticed,  but  who 
was  not  insignificant.  She  was  kindly 
treated,  better  than  a  housekeeper,  less 
well  than  a  relation.  Now,  suddenly  I 
recalled  certain  different  shades  of  ex- 
pression I  had  paid  no  attention  to  be- 
fore. Madame  Chantal  said,  "Perle," 
the  young  girls,  "Mademoiselle  Perle," 
and  Chantal  called  her  only  "Madem- 
oiselle" in  a  manner  that  was  perhaps 
even  more  reverend. 

I  began  to*  look  at  her.  How  old  was 
she?  Forty?  Yes,  forty.  She  was  not 
old,  this  woman,  but  she  was  growing  old. 
I  was  suddenly  struck  with  this  fact. 
She  dressed  her  hair,  wore  her  clothes, 
ridiculously,  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  she  was 
not  ridiculous,  for  she  bore  within  her  a 
simple,  natural  grace,  a  grace  that  was 
veiled  and  carefully  hidden.  Truly  an 
odd  creature!  Why  had  I  never  ob- 
served her  before?  She  wore  her  hair 
in  a  grotesque  manner,  with  little  old- 
fashioned  curls  that  were  quite  comical, 
and  beneath  this  old-maid's  coiffure 
could  be  seen  her  wide,  calm  forehead 


MADEMOISELLE   PERLE  153 

across  which  ran  two  deep  furrows, 'two 
lines  made  by  long-continued  sadness, 
then  two  blue  eyes,  so  timid,  so  humble, 
beautiful  eyes  that  had  kept  themselves 
so  naive,  filled  with  a  young  girl's  won- 
der, with  youthful  feeling,  and  also  with 
the  troubles  that  had  passed  over  them, 
softening  without  dimming  them. 

The  entire  face  was  a  fine  one — one  of 
those  faces  that  are  faded  without  being 
worn  or  withered  by  the  fatigues  of  life 
or  its  deep  emotions. 

What  a  pretty  mouth  and  what  pretty 
teeth !  But  you  would  have  said  that  she 
didn't  dare  to  smile. 

Then  I  turned  to  compare  her  with 
Madame  Chantal.  Certainly  Madem- 
oiselle Perle  was  finer,  a  hundred  times 
finer,  nobler, -and  more  high-spirited.  I 
was  astounded  at  my  observations. 

They  began  to  serve  the  champagne.  I 
held  out  my  glass  to  the  Queen  with  a 
well-turned  toast  to  her  health.  I  per- 
ceived that  she  longed  to  hide  her  head 
in  her  napkin;  then,  when  she  touched 
her  lips  to  the  golden  wine,  every  one 


154  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

cried  out:  "The  Queen  drinks!  The 
Queen  drinks!"  This  made  her  turn 
crimson  and  she  choked.  They  laughed 
at  her,  but  I  could  see  very  well  that  they 
were  all  very  fond  of  her. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  over  Chantal 
took  hold  of  me  by  the  arm.  When  he 
was  alone  he  would  go  out  into  the  street 
to  smoke;  when  he  had  any  one  to  dine 
with  him  he  took  his  guest  up  to  the 
billiard-room  and  would  play  while 
smoked.  That  evening  they  had  even 
lighted  a  fire,  as  it  was  Twelfth-night,  and 
my  old  friend  took  up  his  cue,  a  slender 
cue,  which  he  chalked  with  great  care; 
then  he  said: 

"Thy  play,  my  boy." 

For  he  still  thee-and-thou'd  me,  al- 
though I  was  twenty-five  years  old;  but 
then  he  had  known  me  from  the  time  I 
was  a  child. 

I  began  the  game;  I  made  some  caroms 
and  missed  some  others;  then  as  the 
thought  of  Mademoiselle  Perle  kept  run- 
ning through  my  head,  I  asked,  suddenly : 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  155 

"Tell  me,  Monsieur  Chantal,  is  Mad- 
emoiselle Perle  your  relation?'* 

He  stopped  playing  and  looked  at  me  in 
astonishment. 

"What!  Thou  dost  not  know?  Thou 
hast  never  heard  Mademoiselle  Perle's 
story?" 

"Why,  no." 

"Thy  father  never  told  it  to  thee?" 

"No." 

"Well,  well,  that's  queer  indeed!  Oh, 
but  it's  quite  a  story!"  He  was  silent, 
then  he  continued:  "And  really  it  is  very 
singular  that  thou  shouldst  ask  me  this 
just  to-day,  on  a  Twelfth-night." 

"Why?" 

"Oh!  Why?  Listen,  then.  It  was 
forty-one  years  ago — forty-one  years  to- 
day, this  Twelfth-night.  We  lived  then 
at  Rouy-le-Tors,  on  the  ramparts;  but 
first  I  must  explain  the  house  to  thee  so 
that  thou  canst  understand.  Rouy  is 
built  on  a  hill,  or  rather  on  a  mound  that 
looks  down  upon  a  wide  plain.  We  had 
a  house  with  a  lovely  overhanging  gar- 
den, supported  by  the  old  city  walls. 


156  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

So  the  house  was  in  the  town,  in  the 
street,  while  the  garden  looked  out  over 
the  plain.  There  was  also  a  postern 
gate  opening  from  this  garden  to  the 
fields  and  at  the  foot  of  a  secret  stairway 
that  went  down  through  the  thickness  of 
the  walls,  just  as  there  are  in  novels.  A 
road  passed  in  front  of  this  gate,  which 
had  a  large  bell,  because  the  peasants 
used  to  bring  their  provisions  this  way 
in  order  to  avoid  the  long  way  round. 

"Thou  canst  picture  the  place,  canst 
thou  not?  Well,  that  year  at  Twelfth- 
night  it  had  been  snowing  for  a  week. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  world  were  coming  to 
an  end.  When  we  went  out  on  the  ram- 
parts to  look  out  over  the  plain  it  struck 
cold  to  our  very  marrow  to  see  this  wide 
white  expanse,  white,  frozen,  and  glisten- 
ing like  enamel.  You  might  have  thought 
the  good  Lord  had  done  the  earth  up  in  a 
parcel  to  send  off  to  the  place  where  He 
stores  old  worlds.  I  assure  thee  it  was 
very  dreary. 

"All  our  family  lived  together  then,  and 
a  big  one — a  big  one  it  was :  my  father,  my 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  157 

mother,  my  uncle  and  my  aunt,  my  two 
brothers,  and  my  four  girl  cousins — pretty 
young  girls  they  were — I  married  the 
youngest  of  them.  Of  all  that  lot  there 
are  only  three  of  us  who  now  survive: 
my  wife,  I,  and  my  sister-in-law  who  lives 
at  Marseilles.  Heavens!  how  a  family 
drops  off.  It  makes  me  tremble  just 
to  think  of  it.  I  was  fifteen  then,  since 
I  am  fifty-six  years  old  now. 

"Well,  we  were  getting  ready  to  cele- 
brate Twelfth-night  and  we  were  gay, 
very  gay.  Everybody  was  waiting  in  the 
drawing-room  for  dinner  to  be  an- 
nounced when  my  oldest  brother,  Jacques, 
remarked: 

'"There's  a  dog  that's  been  howling 
out  there  on  the  plain  for  ten  minutes; 
it  must  be  a  poor  lost  creature/ 

"He  had  not  ceased  speaking  when  the 
gate-bell  rang.  It  had  a  deep  sound  like 
a  church-bell  that  makes  you  think  of  the 
dead.  All  of  us  shuddered  at  the  rever- 
beration of  it.  My  father  called  to  the 
servant  and  told  him  to  go  and  see  who 
it  was.  We  waited  in  silence,  thinking 


158  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

of  the  snow  that  covered  all  the  earth. 
When  the  man  came  back  he  declared  he 
had  seen  nothing.  The  dog  was  still 
howling,  his  bark  seemed  to  come  always 
from  the  same  spot. 

"We  sat  down  at  table,  but  we  were 
somewhat  excited,  particularly  the  young 
ones.  Everything  went  well  till  the  roast, 
then  again  the  bell  began  to  ring,  three 
times  in  succession,  three  big,  long  rings 
that  vibrated  to  the  tips  of  our  fingers 
and  which  made  us  hold  our  breath. 
We  stopped  still  to  look  at  one  another, 
our  forks  up  in  the  air,  listening,  and  the 
prey  to  a  kind  of  supernatural  fear. 

"Finally  my  mother  spoke: 

"'It's  astonishing  that  they  should 
have  waited  so  long  to  come  back.  Don't 
go  alone,  Baptiste.  One  of  the  gentlemen 
will  accompany  you.' 

"My  uncle  Frangois  rose.  He  was  a 
sort  of  Hercules,  very  proud  of  his  force, 
and  who  feared  nothing  in  the  world. 
My  father  said  to  him: 

' '  *  Take  a  gun.  One  doesn't  know  what 
it  may  be.' 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  159 

"But  my  uncle  took  only  his  cane  and 
went  off  at  once  with  the  servant.  The 
rest  of  us  stayed  there,  trembling  with 
anxiety  and  terror,  neither  eating  nor 
talking.  My  father  tried  to  reassure  us: 

"'You'll  see,'  he  said,  'that  it  will  be 
some  beggar  or  some  passer-by  who  had 
got  lost  in  the  snow.  After  having  rung 
the  first  time  and  finding  that  the  door 
was  not  opened  immediately,  he  tried  to 
regain  the  road;  then  when  he  couldn't 
get  to  it,  he  came  back  to  our  gate.' 

"It  seemed  an  hour  that  my  uncle  was 
gone.  He  returned  at  last,  furious  and 
swearing: 

"'Nothing,  damn  it!  It  was  some 
joke;  nothing  but  that  cursed  dog  that 
is  howling  a  hundred  feet  from  the  walls. 
If  I  had  taken  a  gun  I  would  have  killed 
him  to  keep  him  quiet.1 

"We  sat  down  to  dinner  once  more; 
we  felt  that  it  was  not  over,  that  some- 
thing was  about  to  happen,  that  the  bell 
would  soon  ring  again. 

"It  did  ring,  just  at  the  moment  when 
they  were  cutting  the  Twelfth-night  cake. 


l6o  THE  SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

All  the  men  rose  together.  My  uncle 
Francois,  who  had  been  drinking  cham- 
pagne, declared  that  he  was  going  to 
murder  him,  and  spoke  so  furiously  that 
my  mother  and  my  aunt  threw  themselves 
upon  him  to  prevent  it.  My  father,  al- 
though quite  calm  and  somewhat  of  a 
cripple,  too  (he  had  limped  ever  since 
his  leg  was  broken  by  a  fall  from  his 
horse),  declared  in  his  turn  that  he 
wanted  to  know  what  it  was  and  that  he 
would  go.  My  brothers,  eighteen  and 
twenty,  ran  to  get  their  guns  and  no  one 
paid  any  attention  to  me.  I  got  hold 
of  an  old  rifle  and  made  ready  to  ac- 
company the  expedition. 

"We  started  off;  my  father  and  my 
uncle  walked  in  front  with  Baptiste,  who 
carried  a  lantern.  My  brothers  Jacques 
and  Paul  followed,  and  I  came  last,  in 
spite  of  the  supplications  of  my  mother, 
who,  with  her  sister  and  my  cousins, 
stood  on  the  door-sill. 

"The  snow  had  been  falling  again  for 
the  last  hour  and  the  trees  were  covered 
with  it.  The  firs  bent  under  this  heavy, 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  l6l 

livid  garment,  like  white  pyramids,  like 
enormous  sugar-loaves,  and  you  could 
scarcely  make  out,  between  the  gray 
curtain  of  the  tiny,  thick  flakes,  the 
lighter  bushes  that  paled  in  the  shadows. 
The  snow  fell  so  thick  that  you  could  not 
see  a  bit  further  than  ten  paces.  But  the 
lantern  cast  a  wide  light  before  us.  When 
we  began  to  descend  the  spiral  stairway  |<f\ 
hollowed  out  of  the  wall  I  was  afraid;  yes, 
indeed !  I  felt  as  if  some  one  were  walk- 
ing behind  me,  as  if  some  one  were  going 
to  seize  me  by  the  shoulders  and  carry 
me  off,  and  I  wanted  to  turn  back,  but 
as  I  should  have  had  to  pass  through  the 
entire  length  of  the  garden,  I  didn't  dare. 

"  I  heard  them  open  the  gate  out  on  the 
plain;  then  my  uncle  began  to  swear: 

"  *  Damn  it !  He  has  gone  again !  If  I 
only  catch  sight  of  his  shadow  I'll  not 
miss  him,  the  wretched — ' 

"It  was  sinister  to  see  that  plain,  or 
rather  to  feel  it  in  front  of  you,  because 
you  didn't  see  it,  you  saw  nothing  but  an 
endless  veil  of  snow,  above,  below,  in 
front,  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  everywhere. 


162  THE   SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

"My  uncle  began : 

"'Hello!  There's  that  dog  beginning 
to  bark  again;  I'm  going  to  show  him 
how  I  can  shoot.  Then  at  least  we'll 
have  gained  something.' 

"But  my  father,  who  was  kind-hearted, 
replied: 

"'It  would  be  better  to  go  in  search 
of  the  poor  beast  who  is  howling  from 
hunger.  It  is  barking  for  help,  poor 
thing!  He  cries  like  a  man  in  distress. 
Come  on/ 

"And  we  started  off  through  the  white 
curtain,  through  the  thick  snow  that  kept 
on  falling,  through  the  cottony  mist  that 
filled  the  night  and  the  air,  that  trembled, 
floated,  fell,  and  froze  the  flesh  in  falling — 
froze  like  a  burn,  a  quick,  sharp  pain  to 
the  skin  with  each  touch  of  the  little 
white  flakes.  We  sank  up  to  the  knees 
in  this  soft,  cold  substance,  and  we  had  to 
lift  our  feet  up  high  in  order  to  walk.  As 
we  advanced  the  dog's  bark  became 
clearer  and  stronger.  My  uncle  cried  out : 

"  'There  he  is !' 

"We  stopped  to  look  about  us,  as  one 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  163 

must  do  in  face  of  a  nocturnal  enemy  ad- 
vancing toward  you.  I  couldn't  make 
out  anything,  then,  rejoining  the  others, 
I  caught  sight  of  it.  He  was  fantastic 
and  terrifying  to  look  at,  this  dog,  a  big 
black  sheep-dog  with  long  hair  and  the 
head  of  a  wolf,  erect  on  his  four  legs  at  the 
end  of  the  long  ray  of  light  the  lantern 
threw  on  the  snow.  He  did  not  move; 
he  had  ceased  barking  and  looked  at  us. 

"My  uncle  remarked: 

"'It's  curious,  he  neither  advances  nor 
retreats.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  let  him 
have  a  taste  of  my  gun.' 

"But  my  father  said,  firmly,  'No,  we 
must  catch  him.' 

"Then  my  brother  Jacques  added: 
'But  he  is  not  alone.  There  is  some- 
thing at  his  side.' 

"To  be  sure,  there  was  something  be- 
hind him,  something  gray  and  indis- 
tinguishable. We  advanced  again  with 
precaution.  When  he  saw  us  approach- 
ing, the  dog  sat  down  on  his  haunches. 
He  didn't  look  ill-tempered;  rather  he 
seemed  to  be  happy  that  he  had  sue- 


164  THE   SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

ceeded  in  attracting  the  attention  of 
human  beings. 

"My  father  went  right  up  to  him  and 
petted  him.  The  dog  licked  his  hands, 
and  then  we  saw  that  he  was  tied  to  the 
wheel  of  a  little  carriage,  a  kind  of  a  toy 
cart  that  was  quite  covered  over  with 
three  or  four  woolen  blankets.  We  lifted 
them  up  carefully,  and  when  Baptiste 
brought  his  lantern  to  the  door  of  the 
little  chariot  that  looked  like  a  kennel 
on  wheels  we  saw  within  a  sleeping  child. 

"We  were  so  astounded  that  we 
couldn't  say  a  word.  My  father  was  the 
first  to  recover,  and  as  he  had  the  kindest 
of  hearts  and  was  somewhat  extravagant 
in  his  manner,  he  stretched  out  his  hand 
over  the  top  of  the  carriage,  saying: 

'"Poor  little  forsaken  one,  thou  shalt 
belong  to  us/ 

"And  he  ordered  my  brother  Jacques 
to  wheel  our  discovery  in  front  of  us. 
Thinking  aloud,  my  father  said: 

"'Some  love-child  whose  poor  mother 
came  to  ring  at  my  door  this  Epiphany 
eve  in  remembrance  of  the  Christ  Child.' 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  165 

"He  stopped  still  and  then  cried  out 
with  all  his  lungs  four  times  out  into  the 
night  to  the  four  corners  of  the  heavens: 

"'We  have  taken  it!'  Then,  resting 
his  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder,  he 
whispered,  '  Suppose  you  had  fired  at  the 
dog,  Frangois?' 

"  My  uncle  did  not  reply,  but  he  crossed 
himself  in  the  dark,  for  he  was  very  pious 
in  spite  of  his  braggart  airs. 

"We  had  loosened  the  dog,  who  fol- 
lowed us.  It  was  a  sight  to  see,  our  re- 
turn to  the  house.  It  was  very  difficult 
at  first  to  drag  the  carriage  up  the  ram- 
part stairs;  we  succeeded  in  the  end, 
however,  and  wheeled  it  up  to  the 
vestibule. 

"How  funny  mamma  was,  glad  and 
frightened!  And  my  four  little  cousins 
(the  youngest  was  only  six)  were  like  four 
hens  about  a  nest.  At  last  the  child, 
who  was  still  sleeping,  was  taken  from  the 
carriage.  It  was  a  girl  of  about  six  weeks, 
and  in  her  clothes  we  found  ten  thousand 
francs  in  gold;  yes,  ten  thousand  francs 
which  papa  invested  for  her  dowry.  It 


1 66  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

was  not  the  child  of  poor  people.  We 
hazarded  a  thousand  different  guesses, 
but  we  have  never  known  .  .  .  never 
known  .  .  .  nothing  at  all.  The  dog 
was  recognized  by  no  one.  He  was  a 
stranger  in  that  part  of  the  country. 
Anyhow,  he  or  she  who  had  come  in  order 
to  ring  three  times  at  our  door  must 
have  known  my  parents  well  to  choose 
them  in  this  way. 

"That  is  how  Mademoiselle  Perle,  six 
weeks  old,  entered  the  house  of  Chantal. 
She  wasn't  named  Mademoiselle  Perle 
until  later.  She  was  baptized  Marie 
Simonne  Claire,  Claire  being  meant  to 
serve  her  as  a  surname. 

"You  can  imagine  how  funny  was  our 
return  to  the  dining-room  with  this  little 
youngster,  now  wide  awake,  who  kept 
looking  round  at  the  people  and  the 
lights  with  her  roving  blue  eyes. 

"We  sat  down  at  the  table  again  and 
the  cake  was  served.  I  was  King  and  I 
chose  Mademoiselle  Perle  for  Queen,  as 
you  just  did.  She  had  no  suspicion  that 
day  of  the  honor  done  her. 


MADEMOISELLE   PERLE  167 

"So  the  child  was  adopted  and  brought 
up  in  the  family.  She  grew  and  the  years 
passed.  She  was  gentle,  sweet-natured, 
obedient.  Every  one  loved  her  and 
would  probably  have  spoiled  her  if  my 
mother  had  not  prevented  it. 

"My  mother  was  a  commanding  wom- 
an, accustomed  to  rule.  She  consented 
to  treat  little  Claire  as  one  of  her  own 
children,  but  she  insisted  that  the  dis- 
tance which  separated  us  should  be  well 
kept  and  the  position  clearly  defined. 
Also,  as  soon  as  the  child  could  under- 
stand she  told  her  her  history  and  let 
sift  very  gently,  very  tenderly,  into  the 
little  one's  mind  the  fact  that  she  was  for 
the  Chantals  an  adopted  daughter,  who 
had  been  accepted  by  them,  yet  was  still 
an  outsider. 

"Claire  comprehended  this  situation 
with  a  singularly  intelligent  grasp,  with 
a  surprising  instinct,  and  she  knew  how  to 
take  and  keep  the  place  which  was  given 
her  with  so  much  tact  and  grace  and 
gentleness  that  my  father  was  moved  to 
tears. 

12 


l68  THE  SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

"My  mother,  even,  was  so  touched  by 
her  passionate  gratitude  and  by  the  almost 
timid  devotion  of  this  dainty  and  affec- 
tionate creature  that  she  began  to  call 
her  'my  daughter.'  Sometimes  when 
the  child  had  done  something  good  and 
kind  my  mother  would  shove  her  spec- 
tacles up  on  her  forehead,  which  was  al- 
ways an  indication  of  emotion,  and  say: 

"'But  she  is  a  pearl,  a  real  pearl,  this 
child.' 

"The  name  stuck  to  little  Claire,  who 
became  and  remained  for  us  Mademoiselle 
Perle." 

Monsieur  Chantal  was  silent.  He  was 
seated  on  the  billiard-table,  swinging  his 
legs;  with  his  left  hand  he  played  with  a 
ball,  while  his  right  fooled  with  a  rag 
used  to  wipe  off  the  scores  from  the  black- 
board and  which  we  called  "the  chalk- 
rag."  Somewhat  red  in  the  face,  he 
talked  to  himself,  half  under  his  breath. 
He  was  started  off  on  his  recollections, 
moving  quietly  among  old  things  and 
ancient  happenings  that  reawakened  in 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  169 

his  memory  as  one  who  strolls  through  old 
family  gardens  where  one  grew  up  and 
where  every  tree,  every  path,  every 
plant,  the  sweet-smelling  bay,  the  yew- 
tree  whose  greasy  red  berries  crush  be- 
tween the  ringers,  recall  at  every  step 
some  little  incident  of  the  past  life,  one 
of  those  little  insignificant,  yet  delight- 
ful facts  which  form  the  foundation,  the 
weave  of  existence. 

I  leaned  against  the  wall  opposite 
him,  my  hands  resting  on  my  idle  billiard- 
cue. 

At  the  end  of  a  minute  he  began  again: 

" Heavens!  but  she  was  pretty  at  eigh- 
teen .  .  .  and  graceful  .  .  .  and  well- 
formed.  ...  Ah!  the  pretty  .  . .  pretty  . . . 
pretty  girl ...  the  good  and  charming  girl. 
.  .  .  Her  eyes  were  blue  .  .  .  bright ...  as 
I  have  never  seen  the  like  .  .  .  never!" 

He  was  silent  again. 

I  asked,  "Why  didn't  she  marry?" 

He  replied,  not  to  me,  but  to  the  passing 
word  "married." 

"Why?  Why?  She  didn't  want  to 
.  didn't  want  to.  Yet  she  had  thirty 


170  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

thousand  francs  dowry  and  was  asked  in 
marriage  several  times.  .  .  .  She  didn't 
want  to.  She  seemed  sad  at  that  time. 
It  was  when  I  married  my  cousin,  little 
Charlotte,  my  wife,  to  whom  I  had  been 
engaged  six  years." 

I  looked  at  Monsieur  Chantal  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  my  glance  penetrated 
his  mind,  that  I  suddenly  saw  down  into 
one  of  those  humble  and  cruel  dramas  of 
honest  hearts,  hearts  that  know  no  re- 
proach, into  one  of  those  inarticulate 
hearts,  unexplored,  that  no  one  has  ever 
known,  not  even  those  who  are  the  dumb 
and  resigned  victims.  And,  my  curiosity 
making  me  brave,  I  said: 

' '  It  is  you  who  should  have  married  her, 
Monsieur  Chantal." 

He  started,  looked  at  me,  and  exclaimed : 
"I?  Marry  whom?" 

' 'Mademoiselle  Perle." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  loved  her  more  than  you 
did  your  cousin." 

He  looked  at  me  with  wide,  strange, 
astonished  eyes,  then  he  stammered: 


MADEMOISELLE  PERLE  171 

''I  loved  her.  .  .  I.  .  .  How...  Who 
told  thee  such  a  thing?" 

"Heavens!  You  can't  help  seeing  it 
.  .  .  and,  moreover,  it  was  on  her  account 
that  you  were  so  tardy  in  marrying  your 
cousin,  who  waited  six  years  for  you." 

He  let  go  the  ball  he  had  been  holding 
in  his  left  hand,  grabbed  the  chalk-rag 
with  both  hands  and,  covering  his  face 
with  it,  began  to  sob.  He  wept  in  a 
fashion  that  was  both  pathetic  and 
ridiculous,  like  a  pressed  sponge,  with 
his  eyes,  his  nose,  his  mouth  all  at  once. 
And  he  coughed,  sputtered,  wiped  his 
nose  on  the  chalk-rag,  wiped  his  eyes, 
sneezed,  and  began  to  flow  again  from  all 
the  openings  in  his  face  with  a  noise  in 
his  throat  that  sounded  like  gargling. 

I,  frightened,  ashamed,  wanted  to  run 
away.  I  didn't  know  what  to  say,  to  do, 
to  attempt. 

Then  all  at  once  Madame  Chantal's 
voice  was  heard  on  the  stair: 

"Well,  won't  you  soon  be  through  with 
your  smoking?" 

I  opened  the  door  and  called  out: 


172  THE  SECOND  ODD   NUMBER 

"Yes,  madame,  we  are  coming  down 
now." 

Then  I  fell  upon  her  husband  and,  tak- 
ing him  by  the  shoulders,  said: 

"Monsieur  Chantal,  my  friend  Chantal, 
listen  to  me.  Your  wife  is  calling  you. 
Pull  yourself  together,  pull  yourself  to- 
gether quickly.  We  must  go  down.  Pull 
yourself  together." 

He  stammered,  "Yes  .  .  .  yes  ...  I  am 
coming  .  .  .  Poor  girl  .  .  .  I'm  coming  .  .  . 
Tell  her  I'll  be  there." 

And  he  began  conscientiously  to  dry 
off  his  face  with  the  rag  that  for  two  or 
three  years  had  wiped  up  all  the  marks 
on  the  blackboard;  then  he  appeared 
from  behind  it  half  white  and  half  red, 
his  cheeks  and  his  chin  daubed  with 
chalk,  with  swollen  eyes  still  full  of  tears. 
I  took  him  by  the  hands  and  led  him  to 
his  room  and  whispered: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Monsieur  Chan- 
tal, that  I  hurt  you  .  .  .  but ...  I  didn't 
know  .  .  .  You  .  .  .  you  understand  .  .  ." 

He  squeezed  my  hand.     "Yes  .  .  .  yes 

. .  there  are  difficult  moments ..." 


MADEMOISELLE     PERLE  173 

Then  he  plunged  his  face  into  the  basin. 
When  he  emerged  I  still  didn't  find  him 
presentable,  but  I  thought  of  a  little 
ruse.  As  he  was  disturbed  at  seeing 
his  appearance  in  the  mirror,  I  said: 

"It  will  be  all  right  if  you  just  tell 
them  that  you  have  a  speck  of  dust  in 
your  eye ;  then  you  can  weep  before  every- 
body as  much  as  you  like." 

So  he  rubbed  his  eye  with  his  handker- 
chief as  he  descended  the  stairs.  They 
were  all  solicitous  about  it;  every  one 
wanted  to  try  and  take  out  the  speck  of 
dust  which  could  not  be  found,  and  they 
told  tales  of  similar  cases  when  the  doctor 
had  to  be  sent  for. 

I  had  rejoined  Mademoiselle  Perle  and 
watched  her,  tormented  by  a  burning  cu- 
riosity, a  curiosity  that  grew  unbearable. 
She  must  in  truth  have  been  pretty, 
with  her  gentle  eyes,  so  large,  so  calm,  so 
wide  that  they  looked  as  if  she  never  shut 
them  as  did  other  people.  Her  costume 
was  rather  ridiculous,  a  real  old  maid's 
costume  which  disfigured  her  without 
making  her  ugly. 


174    -  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  see  into 
her  as  I  had  just  seen  into  Monsieur 
Chantal's  soul,  that  I  comprehended  from 
one  end  to  the  other  this  humble,  simple, 
and  devoted  life.  But  a  question  hovered 
on  my  lips;  I  felt  a  harassing  desire  to 
question  her,  to  know  if  she,  too,  had 
loved  him,  if  she  had  suffered  as  he  had 
done  from  a  long-drawn-out  sorrow,  secret 
and  sharp — a  sorrow  that  is  never  seen, 
never  shown,  never  guessed,  but  which 
walks  at  night  in  the  solitude  of  a  dark 
room.  I  watched  her.  I  saw  her  heart 
beat  under  her  bodice  and  I  asked  my- 
self if  this  gentle,  candid  creature  had 
spent  her  nights  sighing  into  a  damp  pil- 
low and  sobbing,  her  body  shaken  by 
fever  chills  in  her  burning  bed. 

And  I  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice,  like  a 
child  that  breaks  a  toy  to  see  what  is 
inside  of  it: 

"If  you  had  seen  Monsieur  Chantal 
weep  just  now  it  would  have  made  you 
sorry." 

She  started.    "What!    He  wept?" 

"Yes,  yes,  he  wept." 


MADEMOISELLE   PERLE  175 

' '  And  why  ? ' '  She  seemed  much  moved. 

I  replied,  "On  account  of  you." 

"On  account  of  me?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me  how  much  he  used 
to  love  you  and  how  much  it  cost  him  to 
marry  his  wife  instead  of  you  ..." 

Her  pale  face  seemed  to  me  to  lengthen; 
her  eyes,  always  so  wide  open,  always  so 
calm,  closed  quickly,  so  quickly  that  they 
seemed  to  have  closed  forever.  She  slid 
from  her  chair  to  the  ground  and  sank 
down  there  gently  and  softly  as  a  scarf 
that  has  fallen. 

I  cried,  "Help!  help!  help!  Madem- 
oiselle Perle  is  ill." 

Madame  Chantal  and  her  daughters 
hurried  over,  and  when  they  went  for 
water,  a  towel,  and  vinegar  I  took  my 
hat  and  departed. 

I  hurried  off,  my  heart  shaken,  my 
mind  full  of  remorse  and  regrets.  Yet 
at  moments  I  was  content.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  had  done  something  praise- 
worthy and  necessary.  I  asked  myself: 
"Was  I  right?  Was  I  wrong?"  They 
had  kept  it  all  in  their  souls  like  lead  in  a 


176  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

closed  wound.  Won't  they  be  happier 
now?  It  was  too  late  now  for  their  tor- 
tures to  begin  over  again  and  still  early 
enough  for  them  to  recall  them  with 
emotion. 

And  perhaps  some  evening  of  the  com- 
ing spring,  moved  by  a  ray  of  the  moon- 
light falling  between  the  branches  upon 
the  grass  at  their  feet,  they  will  fall  into 
each  other's  arms  and  will  press  each 
other's  hands  in  remembrance  of  their 
cruel,  suppressed  sorrow;  and  perhaps 
also  this  short  caress  will  send  through 
their  veins  a  little  of  that  quiver  that 
they  have  never  known,  which  will 
give  to  these  resuscitated  dead  for  a  mo- 
ment the  swift  divine  sensation  of  that 
intoxication,  of  that  folly  which  brings 
more  happiness  to  lovers  in  one  rapturous 
shiver  than  others  gather  in  the  whole 
course  of  a  lifetime. 


X 

THE   MADMAN 


THE    MADMAN 


WHEN  he  died  he  was  the  head  of  a  high 
tribunal,  an  upright  magistrate  whose  ir- 
reproachable life  was  cited  in  every  court 
in  France.  Lawyers,  young  councilors, 
and  judges  bowed  low  to  mark  their  pro- 
found respect  when  they  looked  at  his 
large,  pale,  thin  face  lighted  up  by  his 
flashing  dark  eyes. 

He  had  spent  his  life  in  the  pursuit  of 
crime  and  in  the  protection  of  the  weak. 
Swindlers  and  murderers  had  no  more 
redoubtable  enemy,  for  he  seemed  to  read 
their  secret  thoughts  in  the  depths  of  their 
souls,  and  with  a  glance  of  his  eye  to  un- 
cover all  their  hidden  intentions. 

So  it  was  that  he  died  at  the  age  of 


l8o  THE  SECOND  ODD   NUMBER 

eighty-two,  rich  in  honors,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  regrets  of  a  nation.  Sol- 
diers in  red  trousers  escorted  him  to  his 
tomb,  and  men  in  white  cravats  voiced 
their  sorrow  over  his  coffin  and  shed  tears 
that  appeared  genuine. 

But  glance  at  this  strange  document 
which  the  distracted  notary  discovered 
in  the  desk  where  the  judge  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  keeping  locked  up  the  records 
of  famous  criminals. 

Its  title  was:  "Why?" 

June  20,  1831. — I  have  just  come  from 
the  court-room.  I  condemned  Blondel  to 
death !  Why  did  this  man  kill  his  five  chil- 
dren? Why?  Of  ten  we  come  across  men  of 
this  kind  who  revel  in  taking  life.  Yes, 
this  must  be  a  kind  of  voluptuousness. 
The  greatest  of  all,  perhaps,  because  does 
not  killing  resemble  creation  more  than 
anything  else?  To  make  and  to  unmake. 
These  two  words  contain  in  themselves 
the  history  of  the  universe,  all  the  history 
of  the  worlds,  everything  that  is,  every- 
thing. Why  is  it  so  intoxicating  to  kill? 


THE  MADMAN  l8l 

June  25. — To  think  that  here  is  a  being 
who  lives,  who  walks,  who  runs  ...  a 
being.  What  is  a  being  ?  This  animated 
thing  that  carries  within  it  the  principle 
of  motion  and  a  will  governing  that  mo- 
tion! It  belongs  to  nothing,  this  thing. 
Its  feet  have  no  connection  with  the  sod. 
It  is  a  grain  of  life  which  moves  on  the 
earth ;  and  this  grain  of  life,  come  from  I 
know  not  where,  one  can  destroy  as  one 
wills.  Then  nothing,  nothing  more.  It 
rots;  it's  all  over  with  it. 

June  26. — Why,  then,  is  it  a  crime  to 
kill?  Yes,  why?  Contrariwise,  in  nature 
it  is  the  law.  Every  being  has  a  mission 
to  kill;  it  kills  to  live  and  it  kills  to  kill. 
The  beast  kills  without  ceasing,  all  day 
long,  every  instant  of  its  existence. 
Man  kills  without  ceasing  in  order  to 
nourish  himself;  but  as  he  feels  the  need, 
too,  of  killing  for  pleasure,  he  invented 
the  chase.  The  child  kills  the  insect 
he  finds,  little  birds,  all  the  little  animals 
that  come  to  his  hand.  But  that  does 
not  satisfy  the  irresistible  need  of  slaugh- 
ter which  is  in  us.  It  is  not  enough  to 


l82  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

kill  beasts;  we  feel  the  need,  too,  of 
killing  man.  Once  upon  a  time  they 
satisfied  this  need  with  human  sacrifices. 
To-day  the  necessity  of  living  in  a  society 
has  made  a  crime  of  murder.  We  con- 
demn and  we  punish  the  murderer.  But 
as  we  cannot  live  without  yielding  to  this 
natural  and  imperious  instinct  of  death, 
we  solace  ourselves  from  time  to  time 
with  wars  in  which  an  entire  nation  slays 
another  nation.  It  is  a  debauch  of 
blood,  a  debauch  with  which  armies  be- 
come infatuated  and  which  intoxicates 
civilians  also,  women  and  children  who 
read  the  highly  colored  accounts  of  mas- 
sacres as  they  sit  in  the  evening  around 
the  lamp. 

One  might  imagine  that  those  who  are 
destined  to  take  part  in  the  butcheries 
of  their  fellow-men  would  be  despised. 
No.  They  are  overwhelmed  with  honors. 
They  are  dressed  up  in  gold  and  brilliant 
clothes;  they  wear  plumes  on  their  heads, 
ornaments  on  their  breasts,  and  they  give 
them  crosses,  rewards,  titles  of  all  kinds. 
They  are  proud,  respected,  loved  by  the 


THE  MADMAN  183 

women,  acclaimed  by  the  crowd,  just 
because  their  mission  is  to  shed  human 
blood.  They  drag  along  the  pavement 
their  instruments  of  death  which  the 
black-clad  passer-by  looks  at  with  envy, 
because  to  kill  is  the  great  law  which  na- 
ture has  put  into  the  heart  of  every  being. 
There  is  nothing  finer  and  more  honorable 
than  to  kill! 

June  jo.— To  kill  is  the  law  because 
Nature  loves  eternal  youth.  She  seems 
to  cry  out  through  all  her  unconscious 
acts:  "Quick!  Quick!  Quick!"  The 
more  she  destroys  the  more  she  recreates. 

July  2. — A  being — what  is  a  human 
being?  Everything  and  nothing.  By 
his  thought  he  is  the  reflection  of  the 
universe.  By  his  memory  and  his  science 
he  is  a  digest  of  the  world  whose  history 
he  carries  within  him.  The  mirror  of 
things  and  the  mirror  of  deeds,  every 
human  being  becomes  a  little  universe 
within  the  universe. 

But  travel;  look  at  the  races  as  they 
swarm,  and  man  becomes  of  no  im- 
portance, is  nothing  now,  nothing.  Get 

13 


184  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

into  a  boat  and  put  a  distance  between 
you  and  the  shore  crowded  with  people, 
and  soon  you  see  nothing  but  the  coast- 
line. The  imperceptible  creature  disap- 
pears, so  small  and  insignificant  is  he. 
Traverse  Europe  in  an  express  train  and 
look  out  of  its  window.  Men,  men, 
everywhere  are  men,  innumerable,  un- 
known, who  swarm  over  the  fields,  who 
swarm  in  the  streets — stupid  peasants 
who  have  just  enough  intelligence  to 
turn  up  the  sod,  hideous  women  who 
know  just  enough  to  make  soup  for  the 
male  and  to  bring  forth  children.  Go  to 
the  Indies,  go  to  China,  and  you  will  still 
see  millions  of  creatures  struggling,  who 
are  born  and  who  die  without  leaving 
behind  them  more  of  a  trace  than  an  ant 
that  has  been  crushed  on  the  highway. 
Go  to  the  country  of  the  blacks  sheltered 
in  mud  huts,  to  the  land  of  white  Arabs 
living  under  brown  tents  that  flap  in  the 
wind,  and  you  will  come  to  understand 
that  the  individual  human  being  is 
nothing,  nothing — the  race  is  all  that 
counts.  What  is  one  being,  one  particular 


THE   MADMAN  185 

being  of  a  wandering  desert  tribe?  And 
these  people,  who  are  sages  in  their  way, 
do  not  worry  themselves  about  death. 
The  man  does  not  count  with  them.  One 
kills  one's  enemy — that  is  war.  In  olden 
times  that  was  done  from  castle  to  castle, 
from  province  to  province. 

Yes,  travel  around  the  world  and  look 
at  the  innumerable  and  unknown  humans 
swarm.  Unknown?  Ah!  it  is  on  that 
word  that  the  problem  hinges.  To  kill 
is  a  crime  because  we  have  numbered 
human  beings.  When  they  are  born  we 
inscribe  their  names,  we  baptize  them. 
The  law  takes  hold  upon  them.  There  it 
is!  The  being  who  has  not  been  regis- 
tered does  not  count ;  kill  him  in  the  fens 
or  in  the  desert,  kill  him  on  the  mountains 
or  in  the  plain.  What  does  it  matter? 
Nature  loves  death;  She  does  not  punish! 

What  is  sacred  is  the  civil  authority. 
There  we  have  it.  That's  what  looks 
after  man.  The  human  being  is  sacred 
because  he  is  registered  by  the  civil 
authority.  Respect  the  civil  authority, 
the  legal  god.  Down  on  your  knees! 


1 86  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

The  state  may  kill,  since  it  has  the 
right  to  modify  the  civil  authority. 
When  it  has  slaughtered  two  hundred 
thousand  men  in  a  war  it  wipes  them  off 
its  register,  it  cancels  them  by  the  hand 
of  its  recorders.  It  is  over.  But  we, 
who  may  not  change  by  one  iota  -the 
writings  of  the  town  clerk,  we  must  re- 
spect life.  Civil  Authority,  thou  glorious 
Divinity  which  reignest  in  the  temples  of 
municipalities,  I  salute  thee!  Thou  art 
stronger  than  nature.  Hah!  Hah! 

July  3. — What  a  strange  and  savory 
pleasure  it  must  be  to  kill,  to  have 
there  before  one  a  living,  thinking  creature 
and  to  make  a  little  hole  in  it,  only  a 
little  hole,  to  watch  flow  from  it  that  red 
thing  we  call  blood  which  makes  life, 
and  then  to  have  before  one  nothing 
but  flesh,  pulpy,  cold,  inert,  void  of 
thought ! 

Aug.  5. — I,  who  have  spent  my  life 
judging,  condemning,  killing  by  means 
of  words  which  I  enunciated,  killing  by 
the  guillotine  those  who  had  killed  with 
a  knife,  I,  I,  myself  .  .  .  suppose  I 


THE  MADMAN  187 

should  do  what  all  those  murderers  did 
whom  I  punished,  I,  I  ...  Who  would 
find  it  out? 

Aug.  10. — Who  would  ever  know  it? 
Would  any  one  suspect  me,  me,  particu- 
larly if  I  chose  a  creature  whom  I  had  no 
interest  in  putting  an  end  to? 

Aug.  15. — Temptation.  Temptation 
has  entered  into  me  like  a  crawling  worm. 
It  crawls;  it  advances;  it  wanders 
through  my  entire  body,  into  my  spirit 
which  thinks  of  only  one  thing — killing; 
into  my  eyes  that  experience  the  urge  of 
looking  upon  blood,  of  watching  things 
die;  into  my  ears  filled  all  the  time  with 
something  strange,  horrible,  rending,  and 
maddening,  like  a  creature's  last  cry; 
in  my  legs  which  twitch  with  the  desire 
to  be  off,  off  to  the  spot  where  the  thing 
will  take  place;  in  my  hands  that  itch 
with  the  need  to  kill.  How  splendid  it 
must  be,  how  rare  a  delight,  one  worthy 
of  a  free  man  high  above  lesser  men,  who 
is  master  of  his  heart  and  who  seeks 
strange,  new  sensations! 

Aug.  22. — I  could  not  resist  any  longer. 


1 88  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

I  killed  a  little  bird  to  see  how  it  was,  to 
make  a  beginning. 

John,  my  servant,  had  a  goldfinch 
whose  cage  hung  at  the  pantry  window. 
I  sent  him  off  on  an  errand  and  I  took 
the  little  bird  in  my  hand  ...  in  my 
hand  .  .  .  and  I  felt  its  heart  beat 
against  it.  It  was  warm  to  hold.  I  went 
up  into  my  room.  From  moment  to  mo- 
ment I  squeezed  it  a  little  harder;  its 
heart  beat  quicker — it  was  horrible  and 
delicious.  I  almost  suffocated  it,  but 
then  I  should  not  have  seen  any  blood. 

Then  I  took  a  pair  of  scissors,  short 
nail-scissors,  and  slashed  his  throat  in 
three  cuts,  quite  gently.  He  opened  his 
beak,  tried  to  get  away  from  me,  but  I 
held  him  fast,  oh!  I  held  him  fast. 
I  could  have  held  on  to  a  mad  bulldog. 
And  I  saw  his  blood  flow.  How  beauti- 
ful it  was,  red  and  bright  and  glistening — 
blood !  I  felt  like  drinking  it.  I  wet  the 
tip  of  my  tongue  with  it.  It  was  de- 
licious. But  he  had  so  little  of  it,  poor 
little  bird!  There  was  not  time  enough 
to  enjoy  the  sight  as  I  should  have  liked 


THE   MADMAN  189 

to  do.  How  splendid  it  must  be  to  see 
a  bull  bled. 

And  then  I  did  as  real  murderers  do. 
I  washed  the  scissors.  I  washed  my 
hands.  I  threw  out  the  water  and  I 
carried  the  body,  the  corpse,  into  the 
garden  to  bury  it.  I  hid  it  under  a 
strawberry-plant.  It  will  never  be  found. 
Every  day  I  shall  eat  a  strawberry  from 
that  plant.  Truly,  how  one  can  enjoy 
life  when  one  knows  how. 

My  servant  wept;  he  thought  his  bird 
had  flown  away.  How  should  any  one 
ever  suspect  me?  Hah!  Hah! 

Aug.  25. — I  must  kill  a  man!    I  must! 

Aug.  29. — It  is  done.  How  simple  a 
thing  it  is.  I  went  to  walk  in  the 
Vernes  woods.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  any- 
thing, of  anything  at  all.  Then  I  caught 
sight  of  a  child  in  the  road,  a  boy  who 
was  eating  a  piece  of  bread-and-butter. 
He  stopped  to  watch  me  go  by  and  said : 

"How  do  you  do,  M'sieu  le  President?" 

And  the  thought  came  into  my  head, 
suppose  I  kill  him. 

I  replied,  "Thou  art  alone,  my  boy?" 


190  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

"Yes,  M'sieu." 

"Quite  alone  in  the  woods?" 

"Yes,  M'sieu." 

The  idea  of  killing  him  intoxicated  me 
as  if  it  were  alcohol.  I  approached  him 
quite  quietly,  certain  that  he  would  run 
away.  And  then  I  grabbed  him  by  the 
throat.  I  choked  it.  I  choked  it  with 
all  my  strength.  He  looked  at  me  with 
frightened  eyes.  What  eyes!  Round, 
dark,  limpid,  terrified.  I  have  never 
experienced  an  emotion  so  brutal — but  so 
short.  He  held  my  wrists  in  his  little 
hands  and  his  body  shook  like  a  feather 
thrown  upon  a  flame.  Then  he  ceased 
to  move. 

My  heart  beat!  Oh,  the  heart  of  the 
bird!  I  threw  the  body  in  the  ditch, 
then  grass  on  top  of  it. 

I  went  home  again  and  dined  well.  How 
simple  a  thing  it  was!  That  evening 
I  was  very  gay,  light-hearted,  rejuve- 
nated, and  I  spent  the  evening  with  the 
prefect.  Every  one  found  me  witty. 

But  I  did  not  see  the  blood.  I  am 
tranquil. 


THE  MADMAN  1 91 

Aug.  jo. — They  have  discovered  the 
corpse  and  are  looking  for  the  murderer. 
Hah!  Hah! 

Sept.  f. — They  have  arrested  two 
tramps,  but  there  is  no  proof. 

Sept.  2. — The  parents  have  been  to 
see  me.  They  wept.  Hah!  Hah! 

Oct.  6. — Nothing  has  been  discovered. 
Some  straggling  vagabond  must  have 
done  the  deed.  Hah!  Hah!  If  I  had 
seen  the  blood  flow  I  believe  I  should 
now  be  tranquil! 

Oct.  18. — The  desire  to  kill  penetrates 
my  very  marrow.  It  can  be  compared  to 
the  rages  of  love  which  torture  you  when 
you  are  twenty. 

Oct.  22. — Another  one.  I  was  walk- 
ing along  the  river-bank  after  break- 
fast, and.  I  caught  sight  of  a  sleeping 
fisherman  under  a  willow-tree.  It  was 
noon.  A  spade  sticking  up  in  a  potato- 
field  near  by  seemed  to  have  been  left 
there  for  the  express  purpose. 

I  took  it;  I  came  back;  I  raised  it  like 
a  club,  and  in  one  blow  I  cut  open  with 
its  edges  the  fisherman's  head.  Oh,  he 


I Q2  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

bled,  he  did!  Red  blood,  full  of  his 
brains.  It  ran  down  into  the  water  quite 
gently.  And  I  walked  off  slowly.  If 
any  one  had  seen  me.  .  .  .  Hah!  Hah! 
I  should  have  made  a  fine  assassin. 

Oct.  25. — The  case  of  the  fisherman 
has  made  a  great  stir.  They  accuse  his 
nephew,  his  nephew  who  was  fishing 
with  him,  of  the  murder. 

Oct.  26. — The  examining  magistrate 
declares  the  nephew  is  guilty.  Every- 
body in  the  city  believes  it.  Hah !  Hah ! 

Oct.  27. — The  nephew  defends  him- 
self very  badly.  He  declares  that  he  had 
been  to  the  village  to  buy  bread  and 
cheese.  He  swears  that  his  uncle  was 
killed  during  his  absence.  Who  will  be- 
lieve him? 

Oct.  28. — The  nephew  had  to  confess; 
they  confused  him  so  that  he  lost  his 
head.  Hah!  Hah!  There's  justice  for 
you. 

Nov.  15. — They  have  overwhelming 
proofs  against  the  nephew,  who  was  his 
uncle's  heir.  I  am  to  preside  at  the 
assizes. 


THE  MADMAN  1 93 

Jan.  25.— To  death!  To  death!  I 
condemned  him  to  death!  Hah!  Hah! 
The  advocate-general  spoke  like  an 
angel.  Hah!  Hah!  Still  another.  I 
am  going  to  see  him  executed. 

March  18. — It  is  done.  They  guillo- 
tined him  this  morning.  He  died  beau- 
tifully! Oh,  beautifully!  It  gave  me 
pleasure.  How  fine  it  was  to  see  a  man's 
head  cut  off.  The  blood  spurted  over 
like  a  jet,  like  a  jet.  Oh,  if  I  could  have 
bathed  myself  in  it!  What  an  intoxica- 
tion to  lie  down  under  it,  to  let  it  drip 
on  my  hair,  on  to  my  face,  and  to  get  up 
all  red,  all  red!  Ah,  if  they  knew! 

Now  I  shall  wait;  I  can  wait.  It 
would  take  so  little  for  them  to  find  me 
out. 

The  manuscript  contained  several  more 
pages  but  did  not  disclose  any  other 
crime. 

The  alienists  to  whom  it  was  confided 
declared  that  there  are  many  unknown 
insane  just  as  adroit  and  as  dangerous  as 
this  monstrous  madman. 


XI 

THE    HOMECOMING 


THE    HOMECOMING 


THE  sea  lashes  the  coast  with  its  short 
and  monotonous  surge.  Little  white 
clouds  hurry  across  the  wide,  blue 
heavens,  borne  along  like  birds  by  the 
swift  wind,  and  the  village  in  a  cleft  of 
the  valley  that  slopes  toward  the  ocean 
warms  itself  in  the  sunshine. 

At  its  very  end  is  the  house  of  the 
Martin-Levesques,  all  by  itself  on  the 
side  of  the  road.  It  is  a  little  fisherman's 
hut  with  clay  walls  and  a  thatched  roof 
bedecked  with  blue  iris.  A  garden  as  big 
as  a  handkerchief,  where  grow  onions, 
some  cabbages,  parsley,  and  chevril,  forms 
a  square  before  the  door.  A  hedge  shuts 
it  off  from  the  road. 


1 98  THE   SECOND  ODD   NUMBER 

The  man  is  off  fishing  and  the  woman 
is  mending  in  front  of  the  house  the 
meshes  of  a  large  brown  net  that  hangs 
on  the  wall  like  a  huge  spider's  web.  A 
little  girl  of  fourteen  years  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  garden,  seated  on  a  cane 
chair  tilted  backward  against  the  gate, 
is  mending  underwear — the  underwear  of 
the  poor,  already  pieced  and  darned. 
Another  little  girl,  her  younger  by  a  year, 
holds  a  tiny  baby  in  her  arms,  too  young 
for  either  movement  or  speech,  and  two 
youngsters  of  two  or  three  years  old, 
squatted  down  on  the  earth  nose  to  nose, 
dig  with  their  clumsy  hands  and  throw 
handfuls  of  dust  up  in  their  faces. 

Nobody  talks.  Only  the  infant  they 
are  trying  to  put  to  sleep  cries  con- 
tinuously in  a  shrill,  frail  voice.  A  cat 
sleeps  on  the  window  and  the  full-blown 
gillyflowers  at  the  foot  of  the  wall  make  a 
beautiful  border  of  white  flowers,  about 
which  buzz  a  swarm  of  flies. 

The  girl  who  is  sewing  by  the  gate 
calls  out,  "M'ma!" 

The  mother  replies,  "  What  is  it?" 


THE  HOMECOMING  199 

"There  he  is  again." 

They  have  been  upset  since  the  early 
morning  because  a  man  has  been  prowling 
round  the  house,  an  old  man  whose  ap- 
pearance proclaims  him  poor.  They  no- 
ticed him  when  they  went  with  father  to 
his  boat  to  shove  him  off.  He  was  seated 
on  the  side  of  the  ditch  opposite  their 
door.  Then  when  they  came  back  from 
the  shore  they  saw  him  there  again,  gazing 
at  the  house. 

He  appeared  ill  and  very  miserable. 
For  more  than  an  hour  he  had  not 
moved ;  then,  noticing  that  they  took  him 
for  a  tramp,  he  got  up  and  dragged  him- 
self off.  But  soon  they  saw  him  return- 
ing with  his  tired,  slow  gait,  and  he  sat 
down  again,  this  time  a  little  further  off, 
as  if  to  watch  them. 

The  mother  and  the  girls  were  fright- 
ened. The  mother  in  especial  was  wor- 
ried because  she  was  of  a  timid  nature  and 
because  her  husband  Levesque  would  not 
return  from  the  sea  until  nightfall. 

Her  husband  was  named  LeVesque;  she 
was  called  Martin,  and  people  had  bap- 

14 


200  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

tized  them  the  Martin-Levesques.  This 
is  the  reason  why:  she  had  first  married 
a  sailor  by  the  name  of  Martin  who  went 
codfishing  every  summer  off  the  New- 
foundland Banks.  After  two  years  of 
marriage  a  little  daughter  had  come  to 
her.  She  was  soon  to  become  a  mother 
again  when  her  husband's  boat,  the  Two 
Sisters,  a  three-master  from  Dieppe,  dis- 
appeared. 

There  had  never  been  any  news 
of  her;  none  of  her  crew  returned,  so 
she  was  held  to  be  lost,  souls  and 
cargo. 

The  Martin  woman  waited  for  her 
husband  for  ten  years,  finding  it  very 
hard  to  bring  up  her  two  children;  then, 
as  she  was  a  hard-working,  good  woman, 
a  fisherman,  Levesque,  a  widower  with 
one  son,  asked  her  in  marriage.  She 
married  him  and  had  by  him  three  chil- 
dren in  three  years. 

They  struggled  along,  working  hard. 
Bread  was  dear  and  meat  almost  unknown 
in  the  home.  Sometimes  they  went  in 
debt  to  the  baker  in  the  winter  during  the 


THE  HOMECOMING  2OI 

stormy  months.  Nevertheless,  the  chil- 
dren kept  well.  People  said: 

"They're  good  souls,  the  Martin- 
Levesques.  The  Martin  is  a  stiff  worker 
and  LeVesque  has  not  his  equal  as  a 
fisherman." 

The  little  girl  by  the  gate  called  out 
again:  "You'd  think  he  knew  us.  P'raps 
he's  a  poor  man  from  Epreville  or  from 
Auzebosc." 

But  her  mother  was  not  deceived.  No, 
no,  he  was  not  any  one  from  the  country 
about,  that  was  certain! 

As  he  moved  no  more  than  a  post  and 
kept  his  eyes  obstinately  fixed  on  the 
Martin-LeVesque  house  the  Martin  wom- 
an became  furious,  and,  fear  making  her 
brave,  she  seized  a  shovel  and  went  out 
in  front  of  the  gate. 

"What  yer  doin'  there?"  she  cried  out 
to  the  vagabond. 

He  replied  in  a  hoarse  voice:  "I  am 
enjoying  the  fresh  air,  I  am.  Do  I  do  you 
any  harm?" 

She  replied,  "Why  are  you  spying 
about  my  house?" 


202  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

The  man  answered :  "I'm  not  harming 
anybody.  Is  it  against  the  law  to  sit 
down  on  the  road?" 

Not  finding  any  reply  to  this,  she  went 
back  home. 

The  morning  passed  slowly.  Toward 
noon  the  man  disappeared,  but  came  by 
about  five  o'clock.  Then  he  was  not  seen 
again  during  the  afternoon. 

LeVesque  came  in  at  nightfall.  They 
told  him  about  it  and  he  concluded: 

"It  is  some  meddler  or  some  evil- 
doer." 

And  he  went  peacefully  off  to  sleep 
while  his  companion  kept  thinking  of  the 
tramp  who  had  looked  at  her  with  such 
queer  eyes. 

When  day  came  there  was  a  high  wind 
blowing,  and  the  sailor,  seeing  that  he 
could  not  go  out  in  his  boat,  helped  his 
wife  to  mend  his  nets.  Toward  nine 
o'clock  the  eldest  daughter,  who  had 
been  sent  to  buy  bread,  ran  in,  frightened, 
and  cried  out: 

' '  M  'ma !    There  he  is  again !' ' 

The  mother,  trembling  and  white,  said 


THE  HOMECOMING  203 

to  her  husband,  "Go  and  talk  to  him, 
LeVesque.  Make  him  stop  watching  us 
like  that,  because  it  upsets  me,  quite 
upsets  me." 

And  Levesque,  big  sailor  that  he  was, 
brick-red  in  color,  with  a  thick  red  beard, 
his  eyes  blue  with  a  black  spot,  his  heavy 
neck  wound  about  with  a  scarf  as  a  pro- 
tection against  the  wind  and  the  rain 
at  sea,  went  out  quietly  and  walked  up 
to  the  tramp. 

They  began  to  talk  to  each  other.  The 
mother  and  the  children  looked  on  at  a 
distance,  nervous  and  shaking. 

Suddenly  the  unknown  man  rose  and 
came  with  Levesque  toward  the  house. 
The  frightened  Martin  woman  drew  back. 
Her  husband  said  to  her: 

"Give  'irri  a  bit  of  bread  and  a  drop  of 
cider.  He  'ain't  eat  anything  since  day 
before  yesterday." 

And  both  of  them  entered  the  house, 
followed  by  the  wife  and  the  children. 
The  tramp  sat  down  and  began  to  eat, 
bending  his  head  to  escape  so  many  eyes. 

The  mother,  standing,  stared  at  him; 


204  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

the  two  big  Martin  girls,  their  backs 
against  the  door,  one  of  them  holding  the 
latest  baby,  fixed  their  curious  gaze  upon 
him,  and  the  two  little  boys,  seated  in  the 
embers  of  the  hearth,  had  stopped  playing 
with  the  black  pot  to  contemplate  the 
stranger,  too. 

Levesque,  having  taken  a  chair,  asked, 
"So,  you  come  a  long  way?" 

"I  come  from  Cette." 

"On  foot  like  this?" 

"Yes,  on  foot.  When  yer  haven't  got 
the  money,  yer  must." 

"Where  yer  going?" 

"I  was  coming  here." 

"Yer  know  somebody  here?" 

"Maybe." 

They  were  silent.  He  ate  slowly,  al- 
though he  was  famished,  and  he  took  a 
drink  of  cider  after  each  mouthful  of 
bread.  His  face  was  worn,  wrinkled, 
hollow,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  seen  much 
suffering. 

LeVesque  asked  him,  bruskly,  "What 
do  they  call  yer?" 

"My  name's  Martin." 


THE  HOMECOMING  2O5 

A  strange  chill  shook  the  wife.  She 
took  a  step  forward  as  if  to  look  at  the 
vagabond  more  closely,  and  stood  there  in 
front  of  him,  her  arms  hanging  at  her  side, 
her  mouth  open.  No  one  spoke,  then 
finally  Levesque  said: 

"Do  you  come  from  here?" 

He  replied,  "I  belong  here." 

And  now  that  at  last  he  lifted  his  head, 
the  woman's  eyes  and  his  own  met  and 
held  each  other  as  if  they  had  grappled 
together.  And  she  asked,  suddenly,  in  a 
voice  that  was  changed,  low  and  trem- 
bling: 

"Is  it  you,  my  man?" 

He  answered,  slowly,  "Yes,  it's  me." 

He  did  not  move,  and  continued  chew- 
ing his  bread. 

LeVesque,  more  surprised  than  ex- 
cited, stammered,  "It's  you,  Martin?" 

The  other  said,  simply,  "Yes,  it's  me." 

And  the  second  husband  asked, ' '  Where 
do  you  come  from,  then?" 

The  first  told  his  story:  "From  the 
coast  of  Africa.  We  foundered  on  a 
shoal.  Three  of  us  were  saved — Picard, 


206  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

Vativel,  and  me.  And  then  some  sav- 
ages got  us  and  they  kept  us  twelve  years. 
Picard  and  Vativel  are  dead.  It  was  an 
English  traveler  who  picked  me  up  as  he 
passed  by  and  who  brought  me  back  to 
Cette.  And  here  I  am." 

The  Martin  woman  began  to  cry,  her 
face  in  her  apron. 

Levesque  spoke:  "What  am  I  to  do 
now?" 

Martin  asked,  "It's  you  who  are  her 
husband?" 

"Yes,  it's  me." 

They  gazed  at  each  other  and  were 
silent.  Then  Martin,  looking  at  the 
children  in  a  circle  around  him,  nodded 
toward  the  two  little  girls. 

"Are  they  mine?" 

Levesque  said,  "They're  yours." 

He  didn't  rise;  he  didn't  embrace  them; 
he  only  observed,  "Good  Lord!  but 
they're  big!" 

LeVesque  repeated,  "What  am  I  to  do?" 

Martin,  perplexed,  knew  no  more  than 
he.  Finally  he  decided:  "I'll  do  what 
you  want.  I  don't  want  to  harm  yer. 


THE  HOMECOMING  2O7 

It's  provoking,  though,  on  account  of  the 
house.  I  have  two  children;  you  have 
three.  Let  each  one  take  his  own.  The 
mother,  is  she  yours  or  mine  ?  I'm  willing 
to  do  what  you  want,  but  the  house, 
that's  mine  because  my  father  left  it  to 
me  because  I  was  born  in  it,  and  she  has 
the  papers  about  it  at  the  notary *s." 

The  Martin  woman  still  wept  in  little 
sobs  into  the  blue  cloth  of  her  apron. 
The  two  big  girls  had  come  nearer  and 
looked  at  their  father  with  uncertainty. 

He  had  finished  eating.  Now  it  was 
his  turn  to  ask,  "What  am  I  to  do?" 

Levesque  had  an  idea:  "We'll  have  to 
go  to  the  priest.  He'll  decide." 

Martin  rose,  and  as  he  neared  his  wife 
she  threw  herself  upon  his  breast  and 
sobbed: 

"My  husband,  it's  you!  Martin,  my 
poor  Martin,  it's  you!"  And  she  held 
him  tight  in  her  arms,  suddenly  over- 
whelmed by  a  breath  of  the  past,  by  a 
crowd  of  memories  which  brought  back  to 
her  the  time  she  was  twenty  and  his 
first  embraces. 


208  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

Martin,  himself  moved,  kissed  her  on 
her  cap.  The  two  children  on  the  hearth, 
hearing  their  mother  cry,  began  to  howl 
together,  and  the  new-born  baby,  in  the 
arms  of  Martin's  second  daughter,  cried  in 
a  shrill  voice  like  a  fife  out  of  tune. 

Levesque  stood  waiting.  "  Come  on,"  he 
said.  "We've  got  to  set  ourselves  right." 

Martin  let  go  his  wife,  and  as  he  looked 
at  his  two  daughters  the  mother  said 
to  them,  "At  least  kiss  your  father." 

They  approached  him  together,  with 
dry,  astonished  eyes  and  a  little  fright- 
ened. And  they  kissed  him,  one  after 
the  other,  on  both  cheeks  with  a  big, 
peasant  smack.  Seeing  this  stranger  so 
near  him,  the  baby  uttered  piercing 
shrieks  so  that  he  nearly  went  into 
convulsions. 

Then  the  two  men  went  out  together. 
As  they  passed  before  the  Cafe  du  Com- 
merce, Levesque  asked,  "Suppose  we  have 
a  drop?" 

"I'm  willing,"  said  Martin. 

They  entered  and  sat  down  in  the  room 
that  was  still  empty. 


THE  HOMECOMING  209 

"Heh,  Chicot,  two  glasses  of  the  best. 
Here's  Martin  come  back — my  wife's 
Martin,  you  know — Martin  of  the  Two 
Sisters  who  was  lost." 

And  the  innkeeper,  big-bellied,  red- 
faced,  puffy,  and  fat,  three  glasses  in  one 
hand  and  a  bottle  in  the  other,  approached 
and  asked,  in  a  calm  voice: 

"Well,  are  you  back  again,  Martin?" 

Martin  replied,  "Here  I  am." 


f 
XII 

PASSION 


PASSION 


THE  sea  was  bright  and  calm,  barely 
moved  by  the  tide,  and  on  the  piers  the 
entire  city  of  Havre  was  watching  the 
ships  enter.  One  could  see  many  of 
them  in  the  distance,  some  of  them 
large  steamers  plumed  with  smoke,  others 
sailing-ships  towed  by  almost  invisible 
tugs,  raising  their  naked  masts  against 
the  sky  like  leafless  trees. 

They  came  from  every  corner  of  the 
horizon  toward  the  narrow  mouth  of  the 
piers  which  swallowed  these  monsters, 
and  as  they  belched  puffs  of  steam  they 
groaned,  whistled,  and  screeched. 

On  the  pier  swarming  with  people  two 
young  officers  strolled,  saluting  as  they 


214  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

acknowledged  the  bows  of  acquaintances 
and  occasionally  stopping  to  talk.  Sud- 
denly one  of  them,  the  larger,  Paul 
d'Henriciel,  squeezed  the  arm  of  his 
friend,  Jean  Renoldi,  and  then  whispered: 

"I  say,  here's  Madame  Poingot.  Take 
a  good  look  at  her.  I'm  sure  she's  mak- 
ing eyes  at  you." 

She  was  approaching  on  the  arm  of  her 
husband,  a  rich  ship-owner.  She  was  a 
woman  of  about  forty,  still  very  beautiful, 
though  a  trifle  stout,  whose  graceful 
embonpoint  had  enabled  her  to  retain 
the  freshness  of  twenty.  Her  big  black 
eyes,  haughty  carriage,  and  the  entire 
nobility  of  her  person  had  earned  her, 
among  her  friends,  the  title  of  the  God- 
dess. She  had  remained  irreproachable 
and  no  suspicion  had  ever  touched  her 
life.  She  was  cited  as  an  example  of  a 
virtuous  and  simple  woman,  so  inacces- 
sible that  no  man  had  even  dared  to 
dream  of  her. 

And  here  for  a  month  Paul  d'Henriciel 
had  been  assuring  his  friend  Renoldi  that 
Madame  Poingot  looked  at  him  tenderly. 


PASSION  215 

"You  can  be  certain,"  he  insisted. 
"I'm  not  mistaken.  I  see  clearly;  she 
loves  you.  She  loves  you  passionately 
like  a  chaste  woman  who  has  never  loved. 
Forty  is  a  terrible  age  for  virtuous  women 
when  they  have  senses.  They  go  crazy 
and  do  crazy  things.  This  one  is  smit- 
ten, old  man,  like  a  wounded  bird;  she's 
falling,  and  she's  going  to  fall  into  your 
arms.  Look!" 

The  tall  woman  approached,  preceded 
by  her  two  daughters,  aged  twelve  and 
fifteen,  and  suddenly  turned  pale  on  see- 
ing the  officer.  She  looked  at  him  ar- 
dently with  a  steady  eye  and  no  longer 
appeared  to  see  her  children,  her  husband, 
or  the  crowd.  She  acknowledged  the 
bows  of  young  people  without  dropping 
her  eyes,  which  were  lighted  with  such  a 
flame  that  at  last  a  suspicion  finally  pene- 
trated the  mind  of  Lieutenant  Renoldi. 

"I  was  sure,"  his  friend  murmured. 
"Did  you  see  it  this  time?  Ye  gods! 
She's  still  richly  preserved!" 

But  Jean  Renoldi  was  not  looking  for  a 

society  intrigue.    Little  given  to  search 
15 


2l6  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

for  love-affairs,  he  desired,  above  all,  a 
calm  life,  and  contented  himself  with 
passing  liaisons  which  a  young  man 
always  finds.  All  the  accompaniment  of 
sentimentality,  attentions,  and  the  ten- 
derness which  a  well-bred  woman  exacts 
bored  him.  The  chain,  be  it  ever  so 
light,  that  binds  one  to  an  adventure  of 
this  kind,  frightened  him. 

"In  about  a  month/'  he  said,  " I  should 
have  more  than  enough  of  it  and  be 
obliged  to  wait  patiently  six  months  for 
the  sake  of  politeness." 

Then  the  idea  of  a  rupture,  with  the 
scenes,  the  allusions,  and  the  tenacious 
clinging  of  an  abandoned  woman,  ex- 
asperated him.  He  avoided  meeting 
Madame  Poingot.  But  one  night  at 
dinner  he  was  seated  beside  her  at  table 
and  felt  the  sustained,  ardent  look  of  his 
neighbor  grazing  his  flesh,  his  eyes — even 
penetrating  his  soul.  Their  hands  met 
and  almost  involuntarily  closed  tightly. 
This  was  already  the  beginning  of  a  liaison. 

He  saw  her  again,  always  in  spite  of 
himself.  He  felt  himself  loved  and  was 


PASSION  217 

touched,  seized  by  a  kincl  of  vaiii  pity 
for  the  violent  passion  of  the  woman. 
So  he  let  himself  be  adored  and  was 
merely  gallant,  hoping  that  he  would  be 
able  to  keep  it  within  the  bounds  of 
sentiment. 

But  one  day  she  made  an  appointment 
with  him,  explaining  that  they  could  see 
each  other  and  talk  freely.  She  fell  half 
swooning  into  his  arms  and  he  was  obliged 
to  become  her  lover. 

This  lasted  six  months.  She  loved 
him  frantically — in  desperation.  Caught 
in  this  fanatical  passion,  she  no  longer 
thought  of  anything;  she  had  given  her- 
self up  completely — her  body,  her  soul, 
her  reputation,  her  situation,  her  happi- 
ness. She  had  thrown  her  all  into  the 
flame  of  her  heart  as  one  might  throw  all 
one's  precious  possessions  into  a  pyre  for 
a  sacrifice. 

He  had  long  since  had  enough  of  it, 
and  deeply  regretted  the  easy  conquests 
of  a  handsome  officer;  but  he  was  bound 
hand  and  foot  and  a  prisoner.  Every 
other  minute  she  asked  him: 


2l8  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

"I've  given  you  everything.  What 
more  do  you  want?" 

He  was  tempted  to  answer,  "But  I 
never  asked  you  for  anything  and  I  wish 
you  would  take  back  what  you  have  given 
me." 

Without  considering  whether  she  was 
seen,  compromised,  or  ruined,  she  came 
to  him  every  night,  always  more  in- 
flamed. She  then  threw  herself  into  his 
arms,  twined  herself  about  him,  and  grew 
faint  in  exalted  kisses  which  bored  him 
terribly. 

"Do  be  reasonable,"  he  weakly  pro- 
tested. 

"I  love  you,"  she  answered,  and  then 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  to  contemplate 
him  for  a  long  time  in  a  posture  of  adora- 
tion. Under  her  obstinate  gaze  in  the 
end  he  became  exasperated  and  attempted 
to  raise  her. 

"  Do  get  up.    Let  us  talk." 

"No,  let  me  alone,"  she  murmured,  and 
remained  there,  her  soul  in  ecstasy. 

"Do  you  know,  I'll  beat  her,"  he  ex- 
plained to  his  friend  d'Henriciel.  "I 


PASSION  219 

can't  stand  it  any  longer — I  absolutely 
cannot.  This  must  end  and  at  once. 
What  do  you  advise  me  to  do?"  he  added. 

"Break  off,"  the  other  answered. 

Renoldi  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It's 
easy  for  you  to  talk  of  breaking  with  a 
woman  who  martyrs  one  with  attentions, 
who  persecutes  one  with  her  tenderness, 
whose  unique  care  is  to  please,  and  whose 
only  fault  was  to  have  given  herself  up 
to  me  in  spite  of  myself." 

One  morning,  however,  they  heard  that 
the  regiment  was  going  to  change  garri- 
sons. Renoldi  danced  with  joy.  He  was 
saved!  Saved  without  scenes,  without 
tears — saved!  It  was  merely  a  question 
of  being  patient  for  two  months.  Saved ! 
.  .  .  That  night  she  came  to  him  more 
exalted  than  usual.  She  had  heard  the 
horrible  news,  and,  without  removing  her 
hat,  took  his  hands  and  pressed  them 
nervously;  then,  with  her  eyes  in  his 
eyes,  she  began  in  a  vibrating  and  reso- 
lute voice: 

"You  are  going  to  leave.  I  know  it. 
At  first  my  soul  was  crushed;  then  I 


220  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

realized  what  I  had  to  do.  I  no  longer 
hesitate.  I  am  bringing  you  the  greatest 
proof  of  love  a  woman  can  offer:  I  am 
going  to  follow  you.  For  you  I  am 
abandoning  my  husband,  my  children, 
my  family.  I  shall  be  ruined,  but  I  am 
happy.  It  seems  as  if  I  were  again  giving 
myself  to  you.  It  is  the  last  and  greatest 
sacrifice.  I  am  yours  forever!" 

He  felt  a  cold  perspiration  in  his  back 
and  was  seized  with  a  dumb  and  furious 
rage — the  rage  of  the  weak.  Yet  he 
calmed  himself  and  with  a  disinterested 
air  and  a  soft  voice  he  refused  her  sacri- 
fice; he  attempted  to  pacify  her,  to  rea- 
son with  her,  to  make  her  grasp  her  mad- 
ness. She  listened,  and  looked  him  in  the 
eye  with  her  black  eyes  and  a  disdainful 
curve  of  the  lips,  without  answering. 
Only  when  he  had  finished  she  said: 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  are  a  coward? 
Are  you  one  of  these  men  who  seduce 
a  woman  and  abandon  her  at  the  first 
caprice?" 

He  turned  pale  and  attempted  to  reason 
again.  He  showed  her  the  inevitable 


PASSION  221 

consequences  of  her  act  to  their  death — 
their  life  ruined — social  ostracism 

"What  does  it  matter  if  one  loves?" 
she  replied,  with  obstinacy. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  exploded: 
"Well,  then — I  say  no.  Do  you  hear 
me?  I  don't  want  to.  I  won't  have  it. 
I  forbid  you."  His  pent-up  rancor 
carried  him  away  and  he  emptied  his  soul : 
"  Damn  it  all,  you've  been  loving  me  long 
enough  in  spite  of  myself.  The  last  straw 
would  be  to  have  to  take  you  along. 
Thanks— I  should  say  not!" 

She  said  nothing,  but  her  livid  face 
slowly  and  painfully  contracted  as  if  all 
her  nerves  and  muscles  had  been  sud- 
denly strained.  She  left  without  saying 
good-by. 

That  night  she  took  poison.  For  eight 
days  they  thought  that  she  was  lost. 
People  began  to  chatter  in  the  town  and 
pitied  her  for  the  violence  of  her  passion ; 
because  the  guilt  of  extreme  sentiments, 
heroic  by  their  very  wildness,  is  always 
pardoned.  A  woman  who  kills  herself  is 
no  longer,  so  to  speak,  an  adulteress. 


222  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

And  soon  Lieutenant  Renoldi,  who 
refused  to  see  her,  became  the  object  of 
a  general  feeling  of  reprobation — he  was 
unanimously  taken  to  task. 

It  was  said  that  he  had  abandoned,  be- 
trayed, and  beaten  her.  The  colonel, 
softened,  said  a  word  to  his  officer  by  a 
discreet  allusion.  Paul  d'Henriciel  went 
to  find  his  friend. 

"Hang  it  all,  old  man,  one  can't  allow 
a  woman  to  die.  It  isn't  decent." 

The  other,  exasperated,  silenced  his 
friend,  who  let  slip  the  word  "infamous." 
They  fought.  Renoldi  was  wounded,  to 
the  general  satisfaction,  and  confined  to 
his  bed  for  a  long  time. 

She  heard  of  it  and  loved  him  the  more 
for  it,  thinking  that  he  had  fought  for  her, 
but,  being  unable  to  leave  her  room,  she 
did  not  see  him  before  the  departure  of 
the  regiment. 

He  had  been  three  months  at  Lille  when 
one  morning  he  received  the  visit  of  a 
young  woman,  the  sister  of  his  former  mis- 
tress. After  protracted  suffering  and 
despair  she  was  unable  to  overcome, 


PASSION  223 

Madame  Poingot  was  about  to  die.  She 
was  condemned  without  hope.  She  wished 
to  see  him  for  a  minute,  just  a  minute, 
before  closing  her  eyes  forever. 

Absence  and  time  had  appeased  the 
satiety  and  anger  of  the  young  man; 
he  was  moved  to  tears  and  left  for 
Havre. 

She  seemed  at  the  last  gasp.  They 
were  left  alone,  and  at  the  bedside  of  the 
dying  woman  whom  he  had  killed  in  spite 
of  himself  he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  hor- 
rible remorse.  He  sobbed,  and  with  lips 
soft  and  passionate  kissed  her  as  he  never 
had  before. 

"No,  no,"  he  stammered,  "you  won't 
die!  You  will  recover.  We  will  love 
each  other  ...  we  will  always  love  each 
other  .  .  ." 

' '  Is  it  true ?"  she  murmured.  ' '  Do  you 
love  me?" 

In  his  despair  he  swore  and  promised 
to  wait  until  she  had  recovered.  He  was 
moved  to  pity  and  for  a  long  time  kissed 
her  frail,  thin  hands,  while  the  poor 
woman's  heart  beat  furiously. 


224  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

The  next  day  he  returned  to  his  gar- 
rison. 

Six  weeks  later,  very  aged  and  un- 
recognizable, but  still  more  enamoured 
than  ever,  she  joined  him.  In  dismay  he 
took  her  back.  Then  as  they  were  living 
together  like  people  united  by  the  law, 
the  same  colonel  who  was  indignant  at  the 
desertion  was  shocked  at  this  illegitimate 
situation,  incompatible  with  the  good  ex- 
ample officers  should  show  in  a  regiment. 
He  warned  his  subordinate,  then  he  flew 
into  a  rage.  Renoldi  handed  in  his  res- 
ignation. 

They  went  to  live  in  a  villa  on  the 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  the  classic 
sea  of  lovers.  And  three  years  passed. 
Renoldi,  bowed  down  under  the  yoke, 
was  vanquished  and  accustomed  to  this 
persevering  affection.  Her  hair  had 
turned  white.  He  now  considered  him- 
self a  ruined  man — swamped.  All  hope, 
his  career,  all  satisfaction  and  joy,  were 
now  forbidden  him. 

One  morning  he  was  handed  a  card: 
" Joseph  Poincot,  Ship-owner,  Havre." 


PASSION  225 

The  husband!  The  husband  who  had 
said  nothing,  realizing  that  it  is  useless 
to  struggle  with  the  desperate  obstinacy 
of  women.  What  did  he  want? 

He  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  garden, 
having  refused  to  enter  the  villa.  He 
bowed  politely  and  would  not  be  seated, 
not  even  on  a  garden  bench  in  a  pathway, 
and  began  to  speak  clearly  and  slowly. 

"Monsieur,  I  have  not  come  here  to 
reproach  you.  I  know  too  well  how  the 
thing  occurred.  I  am  .  .  .  We  are  the 
victims  of  a  kind  of  fate.  I  should  never 
have  bothered  you  in  your  retreat  if  the 
situation  had  not  changed.  I  have  two 
daughters.  One  of  them,  the  elder,  loves 
a  young  man  and  is  loved  by  him.  But 
his  family  is  opposed  to  the  marriage  and 
points  to  the  situation  of  ...  the  mother 
of  my  daughter.  I  am  not  angry  nor  do 
I  bear  you  any  grudge,  but  I  love  my 
children.  I  am  therefore  going  to  ask 
you  to  give  me  back  my  .  .  .  wife.  I 
hope  that  now  she  will  consent  to  return 
to  my  home,  to  her  home  .  .  .  with  me. 
As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  shall  pretend 


226  THE   SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

to  have  forgotten  ...  for  the  sake  of 
my  daughters." 

Renoldi  felt  his  heart  give  a  violent 
thump  and  he  was  flooded  with  delirious 
joy,  like  a  condemned  man  who  receives 
his  pardon. 

"Why,  certainly,"  he  stammered. 
"Certainly,  my  dear  sir  .  .  .  I  myself  .  .  . 
Believe  me  .  .  .  without  doubt  ...  it 
is  right  .  .  .  only  too  just."  And  he 
felt  like  taking  this  man  by  the  hands, 
like  hugging  him  in  his  arms  and  kissing 
him  on  both  cheeks.  "Won't  you  come 
in?"  he  added.  "You  will  be  better  in 
the  drawing-room.  I'll  get  her." 

On  this  occasion  Monsieur  Poinsot  re- 
sisted no  longer  and  sat  down. 

Renoldi  flew  up-stairs  and  at  the  door 
of  his  mistress  calmed  himself  and  gravely 
entered : 

"You  are  wanted  down-stairs,"  he  said. 
"It  is  some  communication  relating  to 
your  daughters." 

"My  daughters?"  She  started  up. 
"What  can  it  be?  Are  they  dead?" 

"No,"  he  continued.     "But  there  is  a 


PASSION  227 

serious  situation  which  only  you  can 
resolve." 

She  no  longer  listened  and  went  down- 
stairs rapidly.  Then  as  irritated  voices 
reached  him  through  the  ceiling  he  de- 
cided to  go  down  himself. 

Madame  Poingot  was  standing,  exas- 
perated and  ready  to  leave  the  room, 
while  her  husband,  holding  her  by  her 
dress,  repeated: 

"Try  to  understand  that  you  are  ruin- 
ing our  daughters,  your  daughters,  our 
daughters!" 

"I  shall  not  return  to  you,"  she  re- 
peated, obstinately. 

Renoldi  understood  everything  and, 
half  fainting,  approached  and  stammered : 

"What?    She  refuses?" 

She  turned  toward  him  and  by  a  kind 
of  modesty  no  longer  spoke  in  the  second 
person  before  the  legitimate  husband: 
"Do  you  know  what  he  has  asked  me  to 
do?  He  wants  me  to  go  back  under  his 
roof."  And  she  sneered  with  immense 
contempt  for  this  man  who  was  almost 
on  his  knees  beseeching  her. 


228  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

Renoldi,  with  the  determination  of  a 
desperate  man  playing  his  last  card,  spoke 
in  turn,  and  pleaded  the  case  for  the  girls, 
the  case  of  the  husband — his  case.  And 
when  he  stopped,  searching  for  a  new 
argument,  Monsieur  Poingot,  at  a  loss 
for  expedients,  again  resorted  to  the  in- 
timate second  person,  from  force  of  an 
instinctive  and  old  habit: 

"Delphine,  do  think  of  your  children!" 

She  then  enveloped  both  of  them  in  a 
look  of  sovereign  contempt,  then,  flying 
to  the  stairs,  she  flung  at  them,  "You're 
both  miserable  creatures!" 

Left  alone,  they  stood  staring  at  each 
other  for  a  moment,  each  as  broken- 
hearted as  the  other.  Monsieur  Poincot 
picked  up  his  hat,  which  had  fallen  near 
him,  brushed  the  white  dust  of  the  floor 
off  his  knees  with  his  hands,  then  with 
a  desperate  gesture,  while  Renoldi  accom- 
panied him  to  the  door,  he  said,  bowing: 

"Monsieur,  we  are  both  very  unfor- 
tunate." And  with  a  heavy  step  he  left. 


XIII 
GRAVE-WALKERS 


GRAVE-WALKERS 


THE  five  men — mature,  wealthy  men 
of  the  world,  of  whom  three  were  married 
and  two  bachelors — had  finished  dining. 
They  were  wont  to  forgather  in  this 
manner  every  month,  in  memory  of  their 
youth,  and,  after  dinner,  talk  until  two 
in  the  morning.  Having  remained  in- 
timate friends,  they  enjoyed  one  an- 
other's society  and  possibly  passed  here 
the  best  evenings  of  their  existence. 
They  discussed  everything — everything 
that  occupies  and  amuses  the  Parisian. 
Among  them,  as  in  most  drawing-rooms, 
the  talk  was  a  kind  of  oral  perusal  of  the 
morning  papers. 

One  of    the    gayest    was    Joseph   de 

Bardes,  a  bachelor  who  lived  the  life  of  a 
16 


232  THE   SECOND   ODD   NUMBER 

Parisian  in  the  most  complete  and  whim- 
sical manner.  He  was  neither  debauched 
nor  depraved,  but  merely  inquisitive:  a 
reveler,  still  young,  for  he  was  barely 
forty.  A  man  of  the  world  in  the  widest 
and  most  benevolent  sense  of  the  term, 
gifted  with  much  wit  without  great  depth, 
possessing  a  varied  knowledge  without 
real  erudition,  and  swift  discernment  with- 
out serious  penetration,  he  drew  from  his 
observations  and  experiences  —  from 
everything  he  met  or  found — anecdotes 
worthy  of  a  novel  at  once  comic  and  phil- 
osophic, and  about  town  his  humorous 
comment  had  earned  for  him  a  great 
reputation  for  intelligence. 

He  was  the  orator  of  the  dinner.  On 
each  occasion  he  had  his  story,  which  was 
expected,  and  he  told  it  without  being 
asked. 

Steeped  in  an  atmosphere  redolent  of 
the  aroma  of  hot  coffee,  with  his  elbows 
on  the  table,  a  half-consumed  glass  of  fine 
cognac  before  his  plate,  he  seemed  ab- 
solutely at  home,  just  as  certain  beings 
are  absolutely  at  home  in  certain  places 


GRAVE-WALKERS  233 

at  given  moments,  like  the  votary  in  his 
chapel  or  the  goldfish  in  his  miniature 
aquarium. 

"A  curious  thing  happened  to  me  some 
time  ago,"  he  observed,  between  two 
puffs  of  smoke. 

"  Let's  have  it,"  they  demanded,  almost 
in  unison. 

"Willingly,"  he  continued.  "You 
know  that  I  stroll  about  Paris  a  good 
deal,  like  a  collector  who  ransacks 
show-cases.  I  am  on  the  lookout  for 
incidents  and  people — everything  that 
passes  by  and  everything  that  hap- 
pens." 

"Toward  the  middle  of  September  the 
weather  was  beautiful,  and  I  left  my 
place  one  afternoon,  not  knowing  where  I 
was  going.  One  always  has  a  vague  de- 
sire to  call  on  some  pretty  woman  or 
other.  We  make  a  selection  in  our  gal- 
lery and  indulge  in  mental  comparisons, 
weighing  the  interest  they  inspire,  the 
extent  of  their  charm,  and  finally  come 
to  a  decision  according  to  the  attraction 
of  the  moment.  But  when  the  sun  is 


234  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

radiant  and  the  air  soft  this  frequently 
removes  all  desire  to  make  visits. 

"The  sun  was  radiant  and  the  air  mild. 
I  lighted  a  cigar  and  stolidly  strolled 
along  one  of  the  exterior  boulevards. 
As  I  idled  along  it  occurred  to  me  to  con- 
tinue up  to  the  Montmartre  Cemetery 
and  to  pay  it  a  visit. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  cemeteries.  I  find 
them  restful  and  am  tinged  with  melan- 
choly. I  feel  the  need  of  them.  And 
then  again  there  are  good  friends  in  there 
— those  we  will  see  no  more,  and  for  my 
part  I  still  visit  them  from  time  to  time. 

"It  just  happens  that  in  this  Mont- 
martre Cemetery  I  have  a  little  love- 
affair:  a  mistress  who  once  captivated 
and  deeply  touched  me — a  charming  lit- 
tle woman  whose  memory  causes  me 
great  sorrow  and  leaves  me  with  regrets 
.  .  .  regrets  of  every  kind  .  .  .  and  I  go  to 
dream  by  her  grave  ...  for  her  every- 
thing is  ended. 

"And  then  again  I  am  fond  of  ceme- 
teries because  to  me  they  are  like  mon- 
strous cities,  prodigiously  inhabited.  Just 


GRAVE- WALKERS  23$ 

think  of  all  the  dead  in  such  a  small  space ! 
Of  all  the  generations  of  Parisians  who 
have  lodgings  there  forever,  these  ulti- 
mate troglodytes  sealed  up  in  their  little 
vaults,  in  their  little  holes  covered  with  a 
stone  or  marked  with  a  cross,  while  the 
living,  the  imbeciles,  occupy  so  much 
space  and  make  so  much  noise! 

"And  then  in  cemeteries  there  are 
monuments  almost  as  interesting  as  in 
museums.  The  tomb  of  Cavignac  makes 
me  think,  I  admit  without  comparison, 
of  the  masterpiece  of  Jean  Goujon:  the 
body  of  Louis  de  Breze,  at  rest  in  the 
subterranean  chapel  of  the  cathedral  of 
Rouen.  Gentlemen,  all  the  so-called 
modern  and  realistic  art  comes  from  there. 

"This  body  of  Louis  de  Breze  is  truer, 
more  terrible,  and  better  rendered  in  in- 
animate flesh,  still  convulsed  by  agony, 
than  all  the  tormented  corpses  one  sees 
tortured  to-day  on  tombs. 

"But  in  the  Montmartre  Cemetery  one 
can  still  admire  the  monument  of  Baudin, 
which  has  grandeur,  and  that  of  Gautier 
and  Murger,  where  the  other  day  I  saw  a 


236  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

pathetic  wreath  of  immortelles,  brought 
by  whom?  Possibly  by  the  last  grisette, 
very  old  and  perhaps  a  janitress  in  the 
neighborhood?  It  is  a  pretty  statue  by 
Millet,  but  is  marred  by  the  dirt  and 
abandon.  Oh,  Murger,  well  may  you 
sing  of  youth! 

"So  I  was  soon  entering  the  Mont- 
martre  Cemetery,  and  suddenly  I  was 
tinged  with  sadness — sadness,  moreover, 
which  was  not  painful — sadness  that 
makes  one  think  when  one  is  well,  'This 
place  isn't  cheerful,  but  for  me  the  time 
has  not  yet  come.' 

"The  impression  of  autumn,  of  that 
soft  humidity  which  is  redolent  of  dead 
leaves  and  a  faint,  anaemic  sun,  added 
poetry  to  one's  sense  of  solitude  and  the 
air  of  ultimate  finality  that  hovered  over 
the  place  which  spoke  of  the  end  of  man. 

"I  proceeded  slowly  through  the 
streets  of  tombs,  where  neighbors  no 
longer  are  neighborly,  no  longer  sleep 
together  nor  read  the  papers.  And  I 
began  to  read  the  epitaphs.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  that  is  one  of  the  most  amusing 


GRAVE-WALKERS  237 

things  in  the  world.  Neither  Labiche 
nor  Meilhac  has  ever  made  me  laugh 
like  the  comedy  of  tombstone  prose. 
What  books  these  marble  slabs  are,  and 
how  superior  to  Paul  de  Kock  for  dis- 
pelling biliousness!  These  tombstones 
on  which  the  relatives  of  the  deceased 
have  vented  their  regrets,  their  wishes 
for  the  happiness  of  the  defunct  in  the 
next  world,  and  their  hope  of  joining  him 
—the  bluffers! 

"But  in  cemeteries  I  love  the  aban- 
doned, solitary  part,  filled  with  big  yew- 
trees  and  cypresses,  the  old  quartier  of 
the  ancient  dead,  which  will  soon  see  its 
green  trees  nourished  by  human  remains, 
cut  down,  and  become  a  new  quarter 
with  little  slabs  of  marble  in  alignment  to 
mark  the  place  of  the  new  deceased. 

"After  I  had  wandered  about  long 
enough  to  refresh  my  mind  and  to  realize 
that  I  was  about  to  be  bored,  I  decided 
I  had  better  pay  my  faithful  tribute  to  the 
last  resting-place  of  my  little  friend.  My 
heart  was  rather  full  when  I  arrived  at  her 
grave.  Poor  dear,  she  was  such  a  nice, 


238  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

loving  little  thing,  so  white  and  fresh  .  .  . 
and  now  ...  if  they  were  to  open 
that  .  .  . 

"Leaning  on  the  iron  railing,  I  softly 
spoke  to  her  of  my  sorrow,  which  she 
doubtless  did  not  hear,  and  I  was  about  to 
leave  when  I  noticed  a  woman  in  black, 
in  heavy  mourning,  who  was  kneeling  on 
the  adjoining  grave.  Her  cr£pe  veil, 
which  had  been  raised,  revealed  a  pretty 
blond  head,  and  her  hair  in  bandeaux 
seemed  to  be  lighted  with  a  golden  ra- 
diance beneath  the  gloomy  depth  of  her 
somber  head-dress.  I  remained. 

"It  was  clear  that  she  was  suffering 
from  some  great  sorrow.  She  had  cov- 
ered her  eyes  with  her  hands  and,  rigid, 
like  a  sculptured  'Meditation'  and  lost 
in  her  regrets,  she  told  the  beads  of  a 
torturing  rosary  of  souvenirs  in  the  gloom 
of  her  closed  and  hidden  eyelids.  She 
herself  appeared  like  the  dead  thinking 
of  the  dead.  Then  I  suddenly  realized 
that  she  was  about  to  cry;  I  was  aware 
of  this  by  a  little  movement  of  the  back, 
not  unlike  the  shivering  of  the  wind  in  a 


GRAVE-WALKERS  239 

willow.  At  first  she  cried  softly,  then 
louder,  with  rapid  movements  of  the  back 
and  shoulders.  Suddenly  she  uncovered 
her  eyes.  They  were  charming  and  full 
of  tears — the  eyes  of  a  distracted  person, 
gazing  about  as  if  awakening  from  a 
nightmare.  She  saw  me  looking  at  her 
and  seemed  ashamed  and  again  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands.  She  then  sobbed  con- 
vulsively and  her  head  slowly  drooped 
forward  toward  the  marble.  She  leaned 
her  head  against  it,  and  her  veil,  which 
hung  about  her,  draped  the  white  angles 
of  the  beloved  sepulcher  in  fresh  mourn- 
ing. I  heard  her  sigh ;  then  she  collapsed, 
with  her  cheek  on  the  flagstone,  and  re- 
mained motionless  in  a  faint. 

"  I  rushed  toward  her,  rubbed  her  hands 
and  blew  on  her  eyelids,  and  at  the  same 
time  read  the  very  simple  epitaph: 

" 'Here  lies  Louis  Carrel,  captain  of  the 
Marine  Infantry.  Killed  by  the  enemy 
at  Tongking.  Pray  for  him.' 

"This  death  dated  back  several  months. 
I  was  moved  to  tears  and  increased  my 
efforts.  They  were  successful;  she  re- 


240  THE  SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

gained  consciousness.  I  appeared  very 
moved — I'm  not  half  bad  and  am  not  yet 
forty.  Her  first  glance  told  me  that  she 
would  be  polite  and  grateful.  She  was, 
and  her  story  was  told  in  fragments  that 
came  from  a  panting  breast:  the  death 
of  the  officer  who  fell  at  Tongking  after  a 
year  of  marriage — a  love-match — for,  be- 
ing an  orphan,  she  had  just  the  regulation 
dowry. 

"I  consoled  and  comforted  her  and 
raised  her  up  as  I  gave  her  my  support. 

"'Come,'  I  said,  'don't  remain  here.' 

'"I'm  incapable  of  walking.' 

"Til  assist  you.' 

"'Thank  you.  You  are  very  kind. 
Did  you  also  come  here  to  mourn  for 
some  one?' 

"'Yes,  madame.' 

"'A  woman?' 

"'Yes,  madame/ 

"'Your  wife?' 

"'A  friend/ 

"'One  can  love  a  friend  as  much  as 
one's  wife.  Love  knows  no  law.' 

'"Yes,  madame.' 


GRAVE-WALKERS  241 

"And  soon  we  were  under  way  together, 
while  she  leaned  against  me  and  I  almost 
carried  her  through  the  paths  of  the 
cemetery.  As  we  emerged  she  mur- 
mured, faintly: 

"'I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  be  ill.' 

'"Would  you  like  to  go  to  some  place 
and  take  something?' 

"'Thank  you.' 

"I  saw  a  restaurant — one  of  those 
places  where  the  friends  of  the  dead  go  to 
celebrate  the  end  of  the  recent  boredom. 
We  entered.  I  had  her  drink  a  cup  of 
very  hot  tea,  which  seemed  to  revive  her. 
She  spoke  of  herself.  It  was  sad,  so  sad 
to  be  quite  alone  in  the  world,  quite  alone 
at  home  day  and  night,  to  have  nobody  to 
share  one's  affection,  confidence,  or  in- 
timacy with. 

"She  appeared  to  be  sincere,  and  on  her 
lips  it  was  pretty  to  hear.  I  was  touched. 
She  was  very  young — possibly  twenty. 
I  tried  a  few  compliments,  which  were  well 
received.  Then  as  time  was  passing  I 
offered  to  accompany  her  to  her  house  in 
a  carriage.  She  accepted,  and  in  the 


242  THE  SECOND   ODD  NUMBER 

cab  we  sat  close  together,  shoulder  to 
shoulder. 

"When  the  cab  drew  up  at  her  home 
she  murmured:  'I  feel  incapable  of  go- 
ing up-stairs  alone  because  I  live  on  the 
fourth  floor.  You  have  been  so  kind, 
would  you  be  good  enough  to  give  me 
your  arm  as  far  as  my  apartment?' 

"I  accepted  eagerly.  She  went  up 
slowly,  breathing  heavily.  Then  before 
her  door  she  added,  'Do  come  in  for  a 
moment  so  that  I  can  thank  you.' 

"And,  hang  it  all!   I  went  in. 

"It  was  a  modest,  almost  poor  place, 
but  neat  and  tidy.  We  sat  down  side 
by  side  on  a  little  sofa  and  she  again 
spoke  of  her  solitude.  She  rang  for  her 
maid  to  offer  me  something  to  drink. 
She  didn't  come,  and  I  was  delighted, 
because  I  supposed  that  she  very  likely 
came  only  in  the  mornings  and  was  what 
is  known  as  a  femme  de  menage. 

"She  had  removed  her  veil  and  was 
really  charming  with  her  clear  eyes  fast- 
tened  on  me,  so  well  fastened,  so  clear, 
that  I  had  a  terrible  temptation,  and 


GRAVE-WALKERS  243 

yielded.  I  seized  her  in  my  arms,  and 
on  her  eyelids,  which  had  soon  closed,  I 
placed  kiss  after  kiss — kisses  and  still 
kisses. 

"She  struggled  and  tried  to  push  me 
away,  repeating  all  the  while:  'Do  put 
an  end  to  this.  .  .  .  Oh,  do!' 

"What  meaning  was  she  giving  to  the 
word?  In  similar  cases  the  word  'to 
end'  can  have  at  least  two.  To  make 
her  stop  I  passed  from  her  eyes  to  her 
mouth,  and  I  gave  to  the  word  'to  end' 
the  interpretation  I  preferred.  She  did 
not  resist  too  much,  and  when  our  eyes 
again  met,  after  this  outrage  to  the 
memory  of  the  captain  killed  at  Tongking, 
she  had  a  languid,  tender,  resigned  air 
which  dispelled  my  fears. 

"I  was  then  very  gallant,  attentive, 
and  grateful,  and  after  a  chat  of  about  an 
hour  I  asked  her,  'Where  do  you  dine?' 

"'In  a  little  restaurant  on  the  boule- 
vards/ 

"'All  alone?' 

"'Why,  yes/ 

"'Will  you  dine  with  me?' 


244  THE   SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

"'Where?' 

"'In  a  good  restaurant  on  the  boule- 
vards/ 

"'She  resisted  a  little.  I  insisted,  and 
she  gave  in  with  this  argument  to  herself : 
' I'm  so  bored/  .  .  .  And  she  added,  'I'll 
have  to  put  on  a  dress  a  little  less  gloomy.' 
And  she  entered  her  bedroom. 

"When  she  emerged  she  was  charming, 
lithe,  and  graceful  in  a  very  simple  gray 
dress  of  half-mourning.  She  had  evi- 
dently a  city  dress  and  a  cemetery  dress. 

"The  dinner  was  very  cordial.  She 
drank  champagne,  warmed  up,  became 
very  animated.  I  went  home  with  her. 

"This  liaison  brought  forth  among  the 
tombs  lasted  about  three  weeks,  but  one 
tires  of  everything,  particularly  of  women. 
I  left  her  with  the  pretext  of  an  unavoid- 
able trip.  I  made  a  very  generous  de- 
parture, for  which  she  thanked  me 
promptly,  and  made  me  promise  that  I 
would  come  back  on  my  return,  for  she 
really  seemed  to  care  for  me. 

"I  drifted  to  other  attachments  and 
about  a  month  passed  without  the  desire 


GRAVE-WALKERS  245 

to  see  this  funereal  sweetheart  becoming 
strong  enough  for  me  to  yield.  Yet  I 
hadn't  forgotten  her.  .  .  .  Her  memory 
haunted  me  like  a  mystery,  like  a  psycho- 
logical problem — one  of  those  inexplicable 
questions  whose  solution  torments  us. 

"I  don't  know  why,  but  one  day  I 
imagined  that  I  would  find  her  in  the 
Montmartre  Cemetery,  and  I  went  there. 

"I  walked  about  for  a  long  time  with- 
out meeting  people  other  than  the  or- 
dinary visitors  of  such  places — those  who 
have  not  yet  severed  all  relations  with 
their  dead.  By  the  grave  of  the  cap- 
tain killed  at  Tongking  there  was  no  fair 
mourner  weeping  against  the  marble 
headstone,  neither  were  there  wreaths 
nor  flowers. 

"But  as  I  strayed  into  another  quarter 
of  this  city  of  the  dead  I  suddenly  saw  a 
man  and  a  woman  approaching  at  the  end 
of  a  narrow  avenue  of  tombs.  Imagine 
my  amazement  when,  as  they  drew  near, 
I  recognized  her.  It  was  she. 

"She  saw  me,  blushed,  and,  as  I 
brushed  against  her  in  passing,  gave  me 


246  THE   SECOND  ODD  NUMBER 

a  wee  little  sign,  the  slightest  little  wink 
of  the  eye,  which  seemed  to  say,  '  Don't 
recognize  me/  but  which  also  seemed  to 
say,  'Come  back  and  see  me,  sweetheart.' 

"The  man  was  about  fifty,  distin- 
guished, chic,  and  an  officer  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor.  He  was  supporting  her  as  I 
had  myself  when  we  left  the  cemetery. 

"I  left,  dazed,  searching  for  the  mean- 
ing of  what  I  had  just  seen:  to  what  race 
of  human  beings  did  this  sepulchral 
Diana  belong?  Was  she  a  simple  girl  of 
the  streets,  an  inspired  demi-mondaine 
lurking  among  tombs  to  gather  in  all  sad 
men,  haunted  by  women — a  wife  or  a 
mistress — and  still  tortured  by  the  mem- 
ory of  caresses  that  have  vanished?  Was 
she  unique?  Are  there  many  like  her? 
Is  this  a  profession?  Is  the  cemetery 
being  worked  like  the  streets?  Are  there 
graverwalkers?  Or  had  she  alone  con- 
ceived this  brilliant  idea,  so  full  of  pro- 
found philosophy,  of  exploiting  love's  re- 
grets which  revive  in  these  funereal  places  ? 

"And  I  should  like  to  have  known 
whose  widow  she  was  on  this  occasion." 


14  DAY  USE 

UETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWE 

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